... in Rome

 

The Adventures of the Anonymous Two in Rome

 

 

For reasons which seemed a good idea at the time we booked a flight from Stansted Airport which left at 6.00am. This meant we needed to be checked in by 4.00am for which we would need to leave home at about 2.00am.

We didn’t fully appreciate this until a few days before we were due to go. Our chosen plan was to go to bed very early (almost as soon as getting in after work) and set the alarm for 1.00am. It all seemed fine – until we ended up going to bed some time after 10.00pm. Nevertheless, the alarm went off, and miraculously we woke up and set off.

We arrived at Stansted which was littered with sleeping travellers – some had come very prepared with sleeping bags and roll mats while others just lay out over their luggage. The concourse was dimly lit and quiet, as it should be at 4 am in the morning.

The good thing about being there at this time was that there was no queue for Garfunkels, and we were very much in need of a decent breakfast and couple of strong coffees.

The flight left on time and within minutes we were over Dover – although for a minute or two neither of us was sure because the Channel just looked too small – France seemed closer than we had though it ought be. We flew in over Rome and were afforded a fantastic view over the city as we came in to the airport.

Having arrived in Rome – which was hot – we got the bus to the Termini station from where we would walk to our hotel. There was a bit of a traffic jam on the way – as a result of an accident where the drivers had not tried to move the bumped cars off the road, but put on high vis jackets, and got out of their cars right there on the dual carriage way to have it out.

The heat of the day was rising. Fortunately the walk from Termini was all down hill, along Via Cavour,  and by the time we got to the bottom, having had a quick glance down the road to the Colosseum, we decided to pause at one of the cafes for a drink and bite to eat. It was, after all, nearly lunch time.

We sat outside in the cooling shade as the café was roofed by greenery which grew over a metal frame. A number of birds nested in this and as they shuffled about amongst the leaves plant debris fell into our food. Then the resident sparrows quite blatantly sat on the edge of our bread basket helping themselves to bread. The waiters fought a losing battle trying to shoo them away.

Our lunch was simple, but like all food in Italy, thoroughly delicious and all washed down with a much needed beer. We shared an antipasta starter and I managed to ping an olive off the plate which flew away from the table onto the carpet over the gravel behind me. No one seemed to notice.

We wandered over to have a quick look at the forum (we were dragging our luggage around with us) as we were next to it before attempting to find the hotel. We knew where the hotel should be, the exact bit of street – which we found quite quickly. But couldn’t find the hotel.

The bit of street was 50m long – there were shops, a couple of cafes, but no hotel. Eventually we did find it – at the end of a long corridor that ran deep into the buildings which from outside signposted to a barbers.

The hotel had been done up in an incredibly modern style, frosted glass staircase, glass lift and lift shaft – providing an excellent view of the cables – large quantities of modern art and modern, presumably designer, furniture which was very pretty but not that easy or comfortable to sit on.

We dumped our luggage and set off to wander in earnest, starting off along Via del Corso and then cutting through the narrow, busy side streets that epitomise Rome. Cars – primarily Smart cars – were parked haphazardly along the road, as were dozens of scooters.  And those that were driving hurtled along the roads at great speed.

We came to the Pantheon which we went into, and saw the tomb of Raphael. The Pantheon seen today was built by Emperor Hadrian in the 1^st century on the site of an earlier temple built by Agrippa. What is remarkable about it is the dome – a semi-sphere 43.5m in diameter, 6m thick constructed of concrete, and with a hole in the middle. The floor beneath is apparently slightly dome shaped so that rain water runs to drainage systems at the side of the church. Originally the dome was covered with bronze cladding but this was stripped off by Constantine II in the 7^th century to decorate Constantinople, and 1000 years later Bernini took the rest to decorate the alter canopy he was designing for St Peter’s. The marble floor is unfortunately a 19^th reconstruction. The huge bronze doors, however, have survived since Roman times.

We walked on, through narrower, busier streets to Trevi Fountain – on the way seeing a few potential places for dinner. The fountain depicts Neptune flanked by horses representing the calm and stormy seas. Apparently the water now contains bleach – presumably to reduce the annual cleaning requirements.

We threw our coins into the fountain – to ensure our return and wandered back to the hotel. It started to rain, which was actually quite refreshing in the close heat of the late afternoon.

 

Back at the hotel we lay down and almost immediately fell asleep. When we woke it was dark, and time to think about dinner. We aimed for the places we had seen by the Pantheon as this was only a few minutes walk away. As we wandered between them – undecided – it started to rain again, much harder. The need for a decision being pressing we dived into a throbbing trattoria. The entrance was decorated with larges piles of garlic and vegetables – the real thing – hung up all round the door, and boxes of tomatoes that really were straight off the vine. We were shown to a table at the back of the room. It was a table for 4, and two women were already there. We sat at the untaken chairs. The trattoria was one room, filled with tables which were all occupied. It was dimly lit by dark chandeliers, and a high shelf on the walls was lined with bottles and bric a brac. We ordered some wine and water and were given a basket of freshly sliced bread.

The food was delicious, and the atmosphere fantastic. Mid way through the evening a middle aged, goofy toothed man set himself up on the steps at the back of the room which led up to the toilets and proceeded to play guitar and sing.

We had a wonderfully long, lingering and relaxed dinner. Thoroughly stuffed we then wandered through the dark but lively streets to Campo di Fiori and Piazza Farnese – both of which were disappointingly quiet and empty. So we went back via Piazza Navona which had a lot more life to it, the pavement restaurants were still doing a thriving trade for the American tourist market. The piazza’s centrepiece is Bernini’s Fontana dei Fiumi. Formerly a chariot racing stadium, it has always been a hub of Roman social life. There was a market in the piazza for centuries and it used to be flooded in August to form a vast watery playground for rich and poor alike.

Despite it being cool and late we decided to buy an ice cream from a rather excellent shop just off the piazza that I know. The man behind the counter slightly misunderstood what we asked for, and instead of a cone each with one flavour each, he pilled up one cone with both flavours and handed it to Boyfriend. So I re-selected two flavours for myself – it seemed that just going for one flavour was not the done thing at all. However I did decline the topping of cream. Boyfriend didn’t.

We wandered around the Piazza, eating our ice creams. During the day the Piazza has a number of motionless human statues. As we headed back towards the hotel Boyfriend stopped me to show me one such motionless person, hardly visible in the night. However, rather than just standing there, this man was in a state of static motion. His tie was arranged so that it was blowing high in the breeze of his fast walk, he had a hand in his pocket, the other in front of him, marching ahead. One leg was also stretched out ahead, his mouth open. It was as though he had quite literally been stopped still while walking briskly down the street. It was incredible. A stationery man in motion.

Back at the hotel we were having difficulty with the completely ridiculous lavatory. It been crammed in between the bath and bathroom wall such that there wasn’t actually enough space. When Boyfriend sat down he couldn’t part his legs to let his meat and veg between them, and had to cock one leg over the edge of the bath instead.

We tumbled into bed – which was two beds that had been pushed together and then had a double sheet and duvet put over them. This was fine for sleeping, but during our nocturnal activities we did find that the two beds started to get pushed apart and at some point during proceedings one or other of us would be suspended by the sheet alone before disappearing down the gap altogether.

I woke up cold to the sound of noisy English people outside. Boyfriend was also awake. I decided to get up and showered. After running the water for several minutes there was no suggestion that it would get hot so I braced myself for a cold shower – and let out a few exclamations as the cold water took my breath away. I got out and dried and decided to wash my hair separately. Whilst doing so, the water became hot. So Boyfriend, who had been waiting for me to finish, had the pleasure of a hot shower.

We went upstairs for breakfast. It was all decorated with designer furniture, and the plates were curious metal squares. There were no tables laid up, so we sat down and assumed that the man who regularly wandered around the room would realise and bring us the necessary bits. Our table had one of the place settings gone, so we only had one plate, knife and cup. I went to fill the cup with coffee. We also got some juice and a supply of bread with appropriate spreads. The man came out, and provided everyone else who had sat at used tables with clean place settings. He then set to wiping down the used empty tables and came out with fresh place settings to lay them up again. Realising that we were going to be ignored Boyfriend went and helped himself to one of these fresh place settings. The man returned, saw the missing place setting from the table he had laid up only minutes earlier. Clearly confused and bewildered he then cleared the table up again and wiped it down again. Boyfriend and I watched him, and giggled. He then proceeded to un-lay and wipe down all the empty tables – which he had only just finished laying up. The whole process was very amusing and Boyfriend and I struggled not to burst out laughing.

With the hilarity of breakfast over we went out. The room had seemed cool, so I wore warmish clothes. The minute we got outside I realised that this was a terrible mistake – it was an extremely hot day. We walked up Via del Corso, window shopping and passing some sort of street pet shop – tiny kittens and puppies in pens, and along Via Condotti. Usually packed with well heeled fashion victims this street is the heart of designer Rome. It runs up to Piazza di Spagna and the Spanish Steps. Despite the heat of the day, we climbed the steps and were rewarded with a stunning view over the city and to St Peter's. We went into the church at the top of the steps, Trinita dei Monti – where the obese nun at the door told me to pull down my top which appeared to have risen slightly showing my stomach. I’m not sure if she was offended by my flat stomach or that she felt God would be – who apparently made me in his own image and therefore shouldn’t be too bothered by the sight of his creation.

From there we continued on to Piazza di Popolo which was a fantastically huge and empty piazza. On one side were two basilicas that look identical but in fact have different shaped domes – one oval and one round due to space limitations. At the other end was the wall of the old city and a huge gate into the city – this piazza once providing the first sight of Rome to 18^th and 19^th century visitors.

 

The piazza was also the sight of executions where criminals had their heads smashed with hammers until the guillotine took over. And in the middle, by the 3000 year old obelisk that Emperor Augustus brought back from Egypt and around which the piazza was designed, was a solo saxophonist. Passing through the gate, we walked along the outside of the wall to the River Tiber – rather hoping to find shade.

We walked along the Tiber in the shade of the trees to Ponto d’Angelo and up to St Peter’s. The bridge was lined with negros selling presumably fake designer handbags. Castel Sant’Angelo – Hadrian’s tomb – was their backdrop. Somehow it seemed wrong. The Castel was built in 117-138 by Hadrian as a mausoleum to himself and is a labyrinth. There is a high level passageway between it and the Pope’s residence in Vatican City so that in the event of a siege the Pope could escape into the castle.

 

The bridge is lined with angels sculpted by Bernini, each displaying one of the stages of Christ’s passion. Their ecstatically swooning expressions earned them the nickname of the ‘Breezy Maniacs’. Apparently a couple of the sculptures never made it to the bridge, being considered too beautiful to withstand the rigours of the Roman climate. Whilst most of the bridge dates from the 17^th and 19^th centuries the central arches are the remains of the bridge that Emperor Hadrian built in the 1^st century to lead to his tomb.

 

We walked along the white stone street up to St Peter's. The square in front of the basilica – which is in fact a circle is hugged on either side by colonnades of huge pillars, 4 deep. We walked round part of one side of these, primarily to take advantage of the shade before coming back out into the square and joining the queue to enter the church. First we had to go through an airport style security check. This was a new addition – in recognition of the modern world of terrorism.

Whilst not being remotely religious, it is hard not to find St Peter’s awe inspiring. The church is massive – 187m long, and proudly lists on the floor of the nave the length of all other major churches in Europe. St Paul’s has the privilege of being the next biggest. The dome – designed by Michelangelo, rises to the dizzying height of 132.5m, and there was a huge queue of people eager to climb it.

One of the statues in the church depicts Mary with her foot on a globe. Out of that globe is a spike pricking her foot. The spike originates from England and apparently has something to do with Henry VIII’s break with Rome. England is for evermore seen as thorn in the foot of Mary – which is nice.

 

The 13^th bronze statue of St Peter is touched by pilgrims and believers to such an extent that his right foot has actually completely worn away. Clearly none of their prayers were for the continuation of the statue’s foot.

Over the alter is a huge 20m high baldacchino, or alter canopy, designed by Bernini under which only the Pope can celebrate masses.

Michelangelo’s statue of Mary holding her crucified son on her lap resides behind bullet proof glass. It is by no means the most remarkable sculpture I have seen but there is a certain something about seeing it, an image with which I have become so familiar created by someone so famous. There was a wow moment.

However there was a certain hypocrisy in the vast and visual wealth of the Catholic church compared with the millions of catholic poor and suffering. Furthermore, the church has been built by using Rome as a quarry. A virtually un-ruined – although unused – Colosseum was plundered for stone and marble, as was the forum. The old used to build the new. Destruction of the past for the glory of God.

When we emerged from the church it had clouded over, to our immense relief.

Boyfriend had perused our guide book earlier with a view to finding places for dinner. There was a restaurant and jazz club that looked interesting, both of which were the Vatican side of the river so we decided to try to find them now. The area we were now in, Trastevere, was much quieter and less crowded. But there were still little centres of activity, piazzas with cafes attracting the local populace.

 

We managed to find the club, Big Mama which gave no clues about when it opened but at least we knew where we would be heading for this evening. We then wandered on in search of the restaurant, Roma Sparita in Piazza S Cecilia which apparently served genuine Roman cuisine. We found the medieval piazza but initially couldn’t find the restaurant. Then I noticed a building with a menu on the wall. Being shut the restaurant was not in any way distinguishable from the other ancient, shut up buildings in the piazza. We looked at the menu, which didn’t seem to be particularly interesting.

As we were next to Santa Cecilia church we had a look inside – while a wedding party gathered. Rome has hundreds of churches, every few paces there is another one. From the outside they have high and slightly imposing facades but inside many of these buildings are vast and richly decorated. In the tight, scrambled alleyways of the city you never really notice the sheer size of these buildings. They seem to just be there, rammed in alongside the other buildings.

The Santa Cecilia church is entered through a courtyard. The front is pillared with mismatched columns that were plundered from the ancient temples of Rome. In front of the altar is what appears to be a statue of the saint in the position of her death, but on closer examination you can see her skeleton under the ivory exterior. We then went underneath the church where there are the remains of a Roman house and shops, as well as mosaics. What was particularly incredible about it was that most of it we could actually walk through and touch. In England we have become so used to ancient sites being put behind glass or barriers that to just wander freely amongst it seemed curiously exciting. The mosaics we stood on had been walked on by Romans hundreds of years earlier. It put the history of it into perspective.  

By now we were getting hungry and it was rapidly approaching lunch time so – arming ourselves with an ice cream on route – we wandered back across the Tiber in search of somewhere to eat. We returned over Ponto Cestio and Ponto Fabricio. There is an island between these two bridges where we sheltered briefly from a particularly fierce downpour then muddled our way through the cobbled streets, stumbling across another amphitheatre. The site was still being excavated, and the ground had been dug several feet down to the base of a row of pillars. The top 4 feet of the rest of the row, unexcavated, carried on along the street, sticking out of the pavement that had been built around them.

It was still raining, but in the ever present warmth it was refreshing rather than unpleasant. We wandered towards Campo de’Fiori which has been one of but busiest squares in Rome since Renaissance times. The market held there was still buzzing with life. We wandered through the stalls of fresh vegetables, cheeses, fish and meat. It was food that would probably taste the way it was meant to, and looked as though it had grown without being forced to be a certain size, shape or colour.

The square is lined with cafes and we settled for one that looked as though it was more suited to a drink and snack rather than a full blown meal. In front of us was the statue which dominates the square, of Giordano Bruno, a philosopher who was burnt at the stake here in 1600 for heresy. Boyfriend and I, more or less at the same time, said that he reminded us of the ‘book shitter’ statue in Venice.

We sat under the awning, sheltered from the rain, drinking our beers and writing the postcards that we had bought in Vatican city.

We watched the people go by, particularly looking out for red trousers. A friend from our Morocco trip had recently been to Rome and told us that everyone was wearing red trousers. We hadn’t yet seen any. By the end of our trip we had only seen about half a dozen and on our return I informed said friend that Boyfriend had brought red chinos, red shorts, red jeans and red corduroys on the trip and frankly had felt a little foolish – being the only person in red trousers. Friend politely informed us that we clearly hadn’t been hanging around the fashionable areas.

Determined to speak Italian to someone who wouldn’t just speak English to me I was pleased to go into a Tabbachi and find the woman behind the counter struggling with the English speaking customer in front of me. ‘Avete francobolli per Le Grand Bretagne?’ I asked, and she seemed relieved to have someone speak her language. She told me yes, and how much they cost before asking how many I wanted. ‘Dodici’, I replied. In my excitement I had got the wrong number and had in fact meant undici. She wondered whether she would have enough, but did and the transaction was satisfactorily conducted. I felt delighted that I had managed to speak to someone and make myself understood.

Replete and exhausted we returned to the hotel for a siesta. When we woke it was dark and there was a helicopter overhead. Unable to see from our room what was going on, we got ready for the evening and went out. Piazza Venezia – in front of the hotel – was filled with people, demonstrating in front of the building nicknamed The Typewriter. There were riot police everywhere and the movement of pedestrians was being limited. We walked through the side streets, where there were small groups of riot police, to get around the piazza. At the top end of Fori Imperiali was a curious dance show – red lights and people dancing with flames attached to their clothing, barely visible as more than shadows in the red smokiness of the night sky, accompanied by evocative music. All this right next to a demonstration, which we later found out was for the two Italian women hostages held in Iraq. Apparently the deadline for their execution had passed. The demonstration moved off. It was hard to know who was demonstrating as opposed to who was just out for the evening. Apparently the helicopter knew – as it followed the demonstration.

We headed back to the restaurant by Santa Cecilia. It was a changed place by night, open and lit up it was suddenly lively. However, we were still not fully convinced it was where we wanted to go so we wandered along Via San Francesco a Ripa – which crossed the large and busy Viale Trastevere, where there were a number of pavement cafes but they were right next to a busy road.

Eventually we stumbled along a small piazza with  a couple of eateries. We picked one and, having not yet had pizza, both ordered pizza. There were huge – bigger than the very large plate that they were served on. And they were delicious. We did of course have our by now regular, antipasti starter. Despite the vast quantities of food we still managed to force down a tiramisu for pudding. The police helicopter was still circling in the distance – indicating that the demonstration was nowhere near us.

 

What was particularly nice about this restaurant, as well as the trattoria of last night, was that all the clientele were Italian. This may have been because it was in the residential side of the city rather than in the centre or that we were rather good at picking places that were not touristy. I was starting to realise that the Mediterranean diet consisted of large quantities of fat, salt, alcohol and ice cream.

Having sumptuously fed, we wandered back to the hotel. By now the crowds had dispersed. On the way we passed a large excavated area, exposing a Roman forum, called the Argentinean Forum. You could easily make out the road and buildings, now habited by the city cats. There was no public access, so the cats were safe here – and they knew it. We stood there for while, just looking on, amazed. We passed underwear shops, lit up in the dark of the night, the manikins dressed in brown underwear. In Rome, clearly brown undies can be the height of hip and sexy. What’s more, the manikins had cellulite – perhaps it was a design flaw or trick of the light, but the thighs of the plastic model were bumpy. And it was nice.

Returning to the hotel we stopped at on of the neighbouring cafes for a drink and chat with the locals before going back to the hotel and collapsing into bed. It was still hot.

The following morning we woke late and there was again the slight cold water problem. Now aware of the situation I left the water running for ages. It never got warm.

 

We missed breakfast, but didn’t really mind. Again the day started hot and airless. We ambled towards the forum, but on the way decided to climb the white steps up to the Monumento a Vittoria Emanuele II (The Typewriter). Half way up the steps burns the eternal flame at the tomb of the unknown soldier, which is constantly guarded by armed soldiers of the Alter of the Nation. The building is huge, and seems more so by being perched at the top of a vast amount of steps. Inside there was no relief from the rising heat of the day. It was warm and stuffy. The building is now a vast museum which in no way caters for English tourists, all the captions being written in Italian.

 

Boyfriend came upon a case which contained the pen used by the Italians to sign the armistice at the end of World War 1. We went outside to wander around the high level terrace. On one side we had spectacular views over the city, and its multitude of domes, to St Peter’s. On the other side we could see over to the forum – which was the target for the day.

 

Managing to find our way out of the building and back down to street level we both felt peckish and decided to get a snack and drink from one the mobile vendors that lined the Via Dei Fori Imperiali. The man serving us was delighted at our efforts to speak Italian. Having ordered the food, he asked ‘bere?’. ‘Un’aqua minerale, non gassata’, Boyfriend replied. This delighted him even more – ‘I asked you what you wanted to drink, and you said water’ he told us excitedly. What he didn’t know was that Boyfriend hadn’t actually understood his question, he had just asked for a water anyway as he wanted one.

Fed and watered we walked down the road to the Roman Forum. Cars drove past slowly, beeping their horns, and we later learned that this was normal procedure for a wedding party.

The forum covers a number of centuries as various emperors added to it. Across the road is the Imperial Forum in which you can still see Roman houses and shops as well as the outlines of temples. The Roman Forum is very extensive. Entered through an ancient and magnificently carved arched we walked along the Via Sacra between the ruins. Marble steps lead up to floors that would once have been lined with pillars and sumptuously decorated. The pathway through the ruins itself has probably been levelled or even partially reconstructed, but is by and large the same path walked on by the Romans several centuries ago. The forum contains some buildings which are ruined to the point of being almost unrecognisable, while a few feet away will be another building, usually a church, completely intact. It made you realise the extent of plundering that had taken place in order to build the Renaissance Rome that we know today. It seemed ironic that the Renaissance, which is generally considered to be a period of extensive creation was the cause of destruction of ancient Rome.

To our right rose the Palatino, a lush hilly area covered with the remains of a massive Roman palace.

As the ground level of Rome rose and before the forum had been thoroughly excavated, doorways were cut at a higher level into the ancient churches of the forum so that they could continue to be used. When the forum was excavated these doors were left, unusable, in the walls of buildings, about 20 foot above the ground.

We came through the other end of the forum, past the decorative Arch of Titus which was erected in the 1^st century, and towards the Colosseum. Outside men were dressed as gladiators and posing with the tourists. The way in to the Colosseum wasn’t immediately obvious until we saw the queues. After queuing for several minutes an English speaking guide helpfully told us we were in the wrong queue – there was one for guided parties and another for individuals.

 

Having bought tickets and passed through the security system we went in. Even by today’s standard of modern buildings the Colosseum is huge. Much of the structure of the original building needed to be imagined – the columns either side of the stair cases, the lines of seats, the floor of the arena.

The height of the building was impressive, and again I tried to picture the rows of seats and hundreds of people sitting there, the noise of it. Commissioned by Emperor Vespasian to fill the site of a massive lake excavated by Nero, the Colosseum could seat over 55,000 and apparently everyone in Rome had a free, designated seat – strictly allocated according to sex and rank.

It ceased to be used by the 6^th century, gladiatorial combat having been banned in the previous century and was plundered in the Renaissance for its marble. Yet despite this and occasional serious fires the building still stands. Some parts of it are largely untouched. You can climb the steep brick steps, heavily worn, to the upper levels and walk in the dark coolness of the upper corridors.

 

Having wandered around, we made our way out. Feeling the need for a reviving drink we headed to the row of cafes where we had had our first lunch in Rome on this trip. As we sat there two elderly couples sat at the neighbouring table. It transpired they were from England and were delighted to happen upon some other English folk. Having struggled to order drinks from the fluent English waiter they then started to chat to us about what we had all been visiting. The topic of conversation turned to St Peter’s. One of the ladies, mopping her brow – finding is considerably hotter than her home town of Bolton – said ‘Ooh I didn’t much care for it, too over the top. It wasn’t to my liking’. You have to imagine it being said in her northern accent. It was all I could do not to laugh.

Across the road, sticking out of the pavement was the top 5 feet of another column. Obviously some ornate building lay beneath these streets, but was unlikely to be excavated due to the 6 lane road which ran between the Roman and Imperial forums. The thoroughfare was built by Mussolini over the ancient remains to act as a triumphal route to his Palazzo Venezia headquarters. However there are still some who have suggested digging it up to excavate. We walked back past the Fori Imperiali which comprises the fragments of 5 other, smaller, forums built to accommodate the overspill from the original forum.

Now on the hunt for lunch, we walked up to the streets around the Pantheon. Finding a suitable pizzeria we sat down. Our table was outside, at the junction of 4 busy, narrow streets. It was buzzing with life, and almost death as some vehicles motored along with little attention to the possibility of other vehicles - or people - crossing their path. In fairness, there were no give way signs or road markings on any of the streets. Slightly detracting from the atmosphere was a loud and ignorant American woman at the table behind. Almost everything she said was stupid. She asked the waiters exactly what the Pantheon was – they told her it was a place of worship to which she exclaimed ‘Oh, like a temple’. Close, but church, or basilica was probably nearer the mark. The final outrage was, as she looked at her map (and most tourist maps of Rome include small pictures as well as names of all famous landmarks) she called out ‘What’s this Colosseo?’

At first I thought her question was similar to the Pantheon and she wanted to know what it was for. But no, she didn’t understand the Italian word Colosseo and needed it translated into the English Colosseum before she knew what it was.

Despite this ‘entertainment’ lunch was fantastic and the venue perfect. We ambled back to the hotel through the narrow, busy streets. Every few yards huge churches are crammed in amongst the houses, with relatively ordinary looking exterior. But when you go inside, and see the immensity of the building and the richness, if not gaudiness, of its decoration it belies belief, more so as to how such a huge building was crammed into what appeared to be such a small space. Because in most cases you can’t walk around the outside, it really comes as a complete surprise to find them so huge, particularly when they are apparently squeezed into such a bustle of shops and houses.

By chance we went into one church, Sant’Ignazio Di Loyola. The ceiling was painted to depict the saint’s entry into paradise, and the dome too is painted.

As you walk down the aisle the perspective of the dome is right, but once you stand underneath it and look up it is clearly all wonky. Apparently the neighbouring university building complained that if a dome was built it would block their light, so the roof is flat and the image of a dome painted on. It was our favourite church.

 

We returned to the hotel for our siesta as well as to start getting packed up for the next day – trying to fit two bottles, a small statue and packets of pasta into hand luggage so that firstly nothing would break, and secondly the luggage wouldn’t be overweight. That evening we went for dinner at a restaurant in Piazza Sant’Ignazio. The dimly lit church façade rose up behind us with a silent but evocative presence. Dinner was delicious although there was some query as to whether it was actually what Boyfriend ordered.

On our last day we decided to attempt breakfast again. This time there were plenty of tables laid up and the whole proceeding was far more organised. But there wasn’t any cheese spread for the rolls. I had eaten one of the sweet croissants the last time but on this occasion found it revoltingly sweet. Neither of us could eat it. The strong coffee however, was still flowing freely – as was the overly sweet squash.

I had tried to shower again that morning, but at no time did any hot water emerge, so the plan was quickly abandoned. Not completely sure what time the bus left for the airport we decided to wander in that direction and find somewhere nearby to have something to eat and drink. Again, it was a burning hot morning. As we walked up the hill of Via Cavour I saw some steep steps to our right. For a joke I said to Boyfriend that we ought to go up there and have a look. So I was a little surprised when he agreed. But me, him and the luggage climbed the steps to Piazza S Pietro in Vincoli, a small quiet piazza, which naturally contained a church, in what appeared to be a university area. There were buildings proclaiming to be a university and vast numbers of student looking people sitting on the steps outside them.

Our detour wound back to Via Cavour – down a further steep flight of steps. We got to the station and knew that the bus left from the street running down the side. Walking down what we thought was the street we both soon realised it wasn’t the right place. I started to muster in my head the sentences I thought might be required ‘Di dove parti l’autobus per l’aeroporto?’ and the like. We also needed to know ‘a che ora parti l’autobus?’

Boyfriend decided to go along the street in the other direction, and we soon found the bus stops. Having just over half an hour before it left we went to a nearby café for some beers.

The bus journey back to the airport seemed to take a long time, and for much of it we could see the old aqueduct. We had a panini at the airport and were loaded onto the plane more or less on time to be flown back to a cold Stansted.

NOTES

The above is a true story. Some of the information about places visited is sourced from a variety of guide books. The author maintains rights over all other content.

 
 

... in Morocco

Adventures of the Anonymous Two in Morocco - Trekking the Mgoun Massif

Having packed and re-packed during most of Friday night to try and get all necessary items into the required two soft bags we collapsed into bed.

Explore had kindly sent us soft bags for the purpose of the trek which also ever so slightly advertised their company. Originally we hadn’t intended to use them, but they were bigger than anything else we had – and we needed the space. At Heathrow the dozens of red Explore bags reminded us of our original reason for not wanting to use it. By then it was too late.

Amongst the self conscious murmurings of fellow Explorers we realised that one person in the check in line was on our trip. Most of the others were on a two week trip – including the young man behind us who had never trekked anywhere or anything in his life, and stood there in brand new outdoor clothes.

Having a final pint in Weatherspoons we met up again with the chap doing the same trip as us, who identified himself as Joker.

In what we eventually came to realise was true laid back Moroccan style, we were eventually boarded onto the plane, and some time later taxied off to the runway. By now running about an hour late the pilot clearly felt he had time to make up, so on receiving notification that he was clear to take off, he turned onto the runway, taking the corner at several miles an hour. Without pausing for thought at the head of the runway, he put his foot down (metaphorically speaking, as clearly planes are steered with the feet but moved with the ‘steering wheel’).

The flight itself went uneventfully enough until I saw the Mediterranean. Which got closer. And closer. When we were about 500 feet above the sea, with no obvious sight of land I tried to remember what the airhostess had said about the location of the life jackets in the safety announcement that I had ignored. 300 ft and still no sign of land. At last we went over a beach almost immediately followed by touch down – or rather bounce down - on the runway. I wondered whether it was possible to stay here and sunbathe on that beach with aircraft landing only a few feet above you.

Despite this landing I was a little surprised when the Moroccan majority of the plane broke into applause when the plane touched down, this becoming more rapturous when we actually stopped. I damn nearly joined them. We were a little confused when everyone on the plane except those we had identified as Explore passengers got up and left. Outside it was dark and, rather alarmingly, raining. But I had no idea where we were. There was nothing for it. We would have to ask. Making conversation with those nearest to us it transpired that we were at Tangiers, and the plane would continue on shortly to Casablanca. This had apparently been announced on the plane – after the 5 minute Arabic announcement there had been a 3 minute French announcement and then an unintelligible 10 second English announcement that it seems we had inadvertently missed.

After considerably longer than the time we were meant to sit at Tangier the baggage handlers suddenly remembered that they needed to unload most of the plane, and a frenzied unpacking began.

Eventually ready to take off, and again running late, the pilot  - who was apparently on danger money - did another ‘0 – 36000 feet in 10 seconds’ take off. And it was a lot easier this time, the plane having virtually emptied. On no take off ever have I been forced so far into the back of the seat. For a moment I thought we would actually do a back loop. After a few seconds I looked out of the window and saw the ground a few miles below. We landed almost immediately afterwards at Casablanca in a far more dangerous manner than the previous landing. Practise was clearly not making the pilot any better.

At Casablanca we filed into the airport and to the appropriate departure gate – now having only a half an hour wait as opposed to the 3 hours it should have been. There was a scanner machine to walk through. It beeped every time someone passed through but the guard just waved us on, apparently thinking that the beep sound meant ‘next’. Clearly he had missed that day of training.

It was here that we started mingling a bit more. We had immigration forms to fill in and Panther (who it transpired was on the trip with us and Joker) asked whether the questions ‘On’ and ‘At’ after requesting the passport number referred to date and place of issue, or date of arrival. I told her that I had opted for date and place of issue preferring to work on the assumption that they would realise the date of arrival was today. Joker observed that with such level of thought I could work here, and probably go far.

Before long we set off for our 3^rd flight of the day – which is far too many. I have done more. 4 in fact per day, but never come down with the plane and I think that makes the difference.

We taxied so far that I wondered if we were in fact driving to Marrakech. Eventually we took off, and landed shortly afterwards. Or rather, bounced along the runway until we reached a position of immobility.

It was midnight and the outside temperature was 29˚C. It was hot. Seriously hot. Vast numbers of Explore bags appeared. Miraculously the very bad piece of string attached to ours was still there. We met our tour leader, Mustafa and were driven into Marrakech to the hotel.

It was a vibrant lively city. The streets were packed with people, including children. Sitting on roadsides, on benches in parks. It was clearly the most pleasant time of day to be outside. Mopeds filled the streets packed with people.

We arrived at Hotel Islane which was described in our guidebook as ‘a faded but reliable establishment’, and also re-assured us that the rooms came with heating!! Like the airport, it was very decorative. If somewhere in London had done itself up like this in a Moroccan theme you would have criticised it for being too much. But here it was real and it worked.

After a few arduous minutes of getting the air conditioning to work and a much needed cold shower we retired to our last night in a proper bed for a week – having first removed the blanket which we felt would probably not be needed. The air conditioning worked wonderfully if you stood directly below it.

The problem was that it was stuck right over in the corner of the room. We also had a slightly amusing time getting the two curtains to cover the three windows as best as possible.

The following morning we went to breakfast in the terrace restaurant. After sitting there for 20 minutes the waiter eventually brought us croissants, bread and orange juice that had actually come from a real orange only a few minutes earlier. Joker appeared, shortly followed by Panther and her surprise room mate Catwoman.

 

The restaurant terrace had a view over the city that we hadn’t appreciated in our midnight arrival yesterday offering commanding views of the mosque Koutoubia. Its 70m tall minaret is the city’s most famous landmark. Constructed in the late 12^th century on the site of a previous mosque this is the oldest and best preserved of the Almohad minorets. Mules pulled heavy loads of fruit and vegetables, either on drawn carts or just in panniers on their backs, being randomly whipped which made no difference at all to their speed of progress. A man cycled passed struggling with a huge sack of potatoes perched on the crossbar.

After breakfast we met up again with Mustafa for a meeting in which administrative matters were dealt with. We were, for the first time, faced with our comrades for the week. Although at the time I didn’t know everyone’s name, for the purposes of this tale I shall introduce everyone. We had of course already met Joker and Panther – who transpired to be rather a dark horse. Catwoman had travelled to Marrakech under her own steam and was staying on after the trip to attend a 3 week Arabic course in Fes. She was the sort of person who could easily blend into different cultures, dressing in what seemed like local clothing, which suited her perfectly. The other loan traveller was Batgirl who has flown out the previous day, as Explore had not been able to get her onto the same flight as the rest of us. She had spent the additional day exploring Marrakech and comfortingly assured us that if we wanted to get properly lost, she was our man. There was a certain dappiness about her, and I think that she later ‘casually’ informed the group that she had a PhD just to let us know that there was in fact a lot more to her. Another dark horse. There were a South African couple – Penguin and Huntress – who we all assumed were an actual couple until they let us know that they were in fact brother and sister. The two remaining couples were Batman and Robin, and Robin and Mrs Pennyworth. There being two Robin’s, and to avoid confusion they shall hereafter be referred to as Robin (m) and Robin (f). Robin (m) and Mrs Pennyworth were also staying on in Morocco after the trip for further exploration. Batman was the tallest man in the world, or at 6’7” next to my compact frame, certainly seemed so. His girlfriend, Robin (f), at first appearance seemed to be a most unlikely trekker, her long blonde hair tied up in a series of clips on her head, her manicured finger nails and painted toe nail, her summery clothes and a slight girlishness about her.

We put our bags on top of the 4 wheel drive jeeps and meandered into town to buy water and change money. Moroccan dirham is a closed currency and can only be obtained in the country. The roads were interesting, having no particular right of way for anyone at any time. So we just walked and hoped for the best. The pavements were huge but the roads were still filled with people and ambling children along with bicycles, horses and cars. There was no sense of rush anywhere. We had already experienced a suspicion of this laid back way of life.

On the way into the market square we passed a row of horse drawn taxis. The horses had tarpaulin sheets attached to their rear end to collect the manure. I assumed that it was less to do with keeping the streets and more as a result of the use of manure on the fields. However, even this noble method of recycling did nothing to ease the stench of horse dung gently simmering in the tropical heat.

We passed the bustling Djemaa el-Fna square and travelling dentists sitting on the wide streets, with neat piles of pulled teeth and collections of dentures on blankets in front of them.

The day had barely started but it was already hot when we clambered into the jeeps to drive to Imelghas. Boyfriend and I shared a jeep with Catwoman and Panther. As we drove along I noticed that everyone moved slowly in the increasing heat, or just sat in the shade under the trees. Vast numbers of people had mules and either sat on the flat carts being pulled by them, or perched on their backs amongst the panniers.

The road was surrounded by dry, dusty land littered with huge cactuses. Everywhere was red. Red dried mud walls rose from the red earth. A red dust lightly covered people and vehicles alike. A local Berber legend has it that when the Koutoubia Mosque was planted in the city’s heart it poured so much blood that all the walls, houses and roads turned this colour. And everything was seriously dry. Despite this there was a surprising amount of greenery.

As we drove through occasional dusty villages there was a smell of spices, charcoal and dung. Again there were people resting beneath the trees, their mules standing patiently by. Washing was hung on ropes between the trees in open parts of the village. Scrawny sheep wandered the fields; managing to find something to eat in the red, dry soil.

 

The road passed over steep banked rivers that, judging by the verdant growth within had been dry for a while.

We stopped at a village for the toilet. It was around 39˚C. The toilet itself (in a building that seemed like a café but also had some sort of engine repair works inside) was primitive – porcelain that had once been white with a hole in the middle and two slightly raised areas where your feet went, all encased in something that resembled an under the stairs cupboard. Further up the street a man was wrapping meat that hung in this oppressive heat.

 

To while away the journey we chatted amongst ourselves, and it was during this chat that Panther informed us that once upon a time she made maps. Serious detail maps. Ones that showed every boulder and every bush.

I decided it would have been fun to go along afterwards and move the boulders. Apparently Panther did not think this would have been amusing at all. This was one of her dark horse revelation. Her revelations became almost daily, and never ceased to surprise us.

As we wound surreptitiously upwards the draught through the window became noticeable warmer, and then wetter. Very wet in fact. The road became bendier and the amount of traffic lessened. We started to climb significantly, winding around steep sided drops and rivers that started to have a suggestion of water in them.

 

Around one corner a shepherd was herding his sheep along the road, while in the valley below us a young boy was riding a mule along the dry river towards a point of water.

We stopped in a red, dusty town for lunch. Apparently this was Mustafa’s home town. We were taken up stairs in the restaurant to a room filled with tourists while downstairs the locals gawped at us as we passed.

Lunch was sumptuous. We started with a spicy salad, which was odd but surprisingly delicious, followed by either lamb or vegetable tajine. The name tajine refers not only to the name of the meal but also the name of the dish in which it is cooked. Traditionally used by nomads as portable ovens over a charcoal fire, a tagine is earthenware with a conical lid and is both a cooking and serving dish. The cone shaped cover acts like an oven and the entire lid is totally sealed to retain heat and moisture, which not only prevents it from drying out during the long cooking process, but also allows the slow infusion of flavours throughout the dish. Boyfriend and I opted for lamb. It was incredibly tender but the lamb had been quite randomly hacked up in the dish. There were bones everywhere, and as I pulled the fat away from one part I happened upon a kidney, which I hadn’t expected at all and considered a bonus. In addition, the lamb the tajine – which is more or less a casserole – was filled with tasty and varied vegetables. For pudding we had fresh melon followed by mint tea, which was warm and very very sweet.

Suitably replenished we continued on our way. As the jeeps drove on children waved at us. I never really established why, but we waved back and they seemed pleased by that.

Of the 150 mile journey we had been told that the final 40 miles or so were off road along the spectacular Tizi n’Tirghist pass. We duly turned off the road onto a mud lane. We were alerted to this by the fact that all of a sudden we were being bounced around in the jeep quite a lot more than previously, with our heads becoming precariously close to making full on contact with the roof. The road deteriorated, becoming little more than a rock strewn track over which the jeep gently meandered its way. Still we climbed up into the mountains, hugging the hillsides which dropped away perilously to the sides. Panther clung onto the vehicle with her eyes firmly closed, not at all keen on edges. So Boyfriend leaned out of the window and took a picture over the edge to show her so that she would realise is wasn’t as bad as she imagined. Apparently this was not helpful.

We bumped and wobbled up to 2600m, passing some dogs that Catwoman ‘spoke’ to. Rather bizarrely, they ‘spoke’ back. It was a hint of things to come. The stones on the track bounced onto the vehicle with ferocity and the outside temperature plummeted. Still we wound our way around the narrow, bumpy, sheer sided mountain tracks before eventually stopping for a short break before heading down into the lush valley of Ait Bougoumez.

From here we had a view of the villages in the valley below, overshadowed by the Atlas Mountains rising in the distance. The ancient Greeks called this land the country of Atlas after the Titan who was condemned to bear the heavens upon his shoulders. According to legend the hero Perseus showed Atlas the head of Medusa to punish him for being inhospitable, and Atlas was transformed into the mountain range that still bears his name.

And it was there, ahead of us. The highest mountain range in North Africa - The High Atlas. And we were due to go up Jebel MGoun, the second highest mountain in Morocco and the highest in the massif. Characterised by escarpments, long crested ridges and deep gorges the Mgoun massif if remote and less commonly trekked than the busier trails of the Toukbal region. Despite the wild and harsh appearance of the peaks, these mountains have long been inhabited by the Atlas Berbers (of which Mustafa was one).

Morocco is a vast and varied territory with a long history of struggles for ascendancy between the Berber tribes of the mountains and the Arabs of the plains. Greek traders called the fierce inhabitants of the Atlas region barboroi, meaning ‘not of our people’. The name persisted through the ages as Berber, although the origin of the Berbers remains a mystery. They have, however, populated North Africa since Neolithic times and been notoriously resistant to outside control. Government relations with the Berbers have also been tense. This wasn’t helped when the Government outlawed Berber names (parents were restricted to an approved list of Arabic names). Moreover it has refused to sanction Berber as a state language ostensibly because it has no written form. Berber children who do go to school are educated in Arabic.

We stopped at a building in the small village of Imelghas that served as our accommodation for the night; technically known as a gite, which I think roughly translates as bunkhouse. We were greeted with more mint tea and biscuits before settling in. There were three rooms each of which had 6 thin mattresses placed on mats on the floor. Boyfriend and I shared a room with Joker, Penguin and Huntress. There was something resembling a normal lavatory that needed to be flushed by pouring buckets of water into it. The whole place was faintly rustic and interesting.

Before dinner there was a walk to Sidi Moussa – apparently the largest circular granary in the world, which conveniently sat on the top of an unnecessarily steep sided hill. The walk was described as optional, but we were all expected to opt to do it.
 

Mustafa set off while we followed at a gentle amble, chatting along the way. He stopped for us to catch up before the hill started to get serious. Once together he then set off at what can only be described as a damn silly pace up the zig zag path to the top. We all followed, and only once at the top confessed to each other that it had been a little fast, and we hoped that this was not an example of the pace we were expected to maintain over the coming days.

The granary itself, like all the village buildings, had the appearance of a mud hut. It seemed that the mud was used as an outer finishing layer. In the village, the mud actually covered brickwork. It wasn’t that big.

 

However, apparently not many granaries are circular, and therefore to be the biggest circular granary in the world didn’t actually require the building to be that large. Inside it was dark and cool and smelled wonderfully of timber; the only light, once the door was closed, coming from a small hole in the roof.

The building was 500 years old. It was once used by the village for people to store their valuables as well as food, and had a number of little wooden-doored cavities. It was built on the top of a hill so that it could be more easily protected from marauding tribes. Now it was a holy place and local girls would come here on Thursday, sleeping over until Friday to make emotional requests, accompanied of course with offerings that lined the interior.

We climbed up a level and then onto a ladder (or rather branch with chips hacked out of it, making something resembling stairs) onto the roof. Mindful not to fall down the hole in the roof, we grouped around Mustafa who pointed out the weeks trek.  From the roof we also had an excellent view across the valley, which, having a water supply, was lush and green, and every inch of it was divided into chaotic segments and farmed.

After yet another cup of mint tea we retraced our steps to the gite, passing beehives with their beekeepers, and noticing that some of the village mud covered kasbahs actually had satellite dishes. Mustafa assured us that the interiors would surprise us, that we would find TV’s and washing machines. From the outside, all that was hard to imagine. It was also difficult to reconcile the lives these people led – hard, farm working families with minimal education opportunities – with the sort of household mod cons that we take for granted. We passed women in the fields, bundling up huge piles of straw that they then heaved on to their backs and carried. Others drew water from the well, and carried that. All the women had loads of some description. Naturally the ‘free’ western woman in Mrs Pennyworth raised with Mustafa ever so gently the question of female rights. He explained that women liked to be a productive part of their community. They wanted to help in the fields, wanted to help their families. Doing this work made them happy. He assured us that the more difficult tasks were left to the men, such as ploughing. And thinking. Life expectancy here was somewhere in the 60’s, women living longer than men as they didn’t exert so much energy on thought. Children also worked on the farms and few of those living in mountain areas went to school. As Mustafa told us, if they went to school and were taught, for example, helicopter, it would mean nothing. They haven’t seen one and can’t imagine one. However, things were changing. But like anything, it was slow.

The incredibly green, terraced and irrigated mountain sides of the valleys were a breathtaking sight. Water being such a rare and precious resource it was used sensibly and directed round the fields via a complex network of channels.

We returned to the gite for dinner – an enormous presentation of cous cous (a native Berber dish), vegetables and lamb, sitting on tiny chairs similar to the sort of things I perched on when I first went to school. Robin (f) told Batman he looked like an insect, all elbows and knobbly bits, as he perched his enormity upon it. As it was starting to rain, we retired inside for tea (which Mustafa called South London tea to distinguish it from mint tea) and coffee, and reclined in dangerous comfort on large soft seats that lined the room to talk about the trip.

Mustafa told us that it was our holiday, and he wanted us to have time to look around us and appreciate the views. Although he congratulated our hearty ascent to Sidi Moussa he made it clear that we were to go at our own pace for the trek. I think there was a general sigh of relief at this news. He wanted us to enjoy his country and this included food.

He liked to eat well, and was keen for us to try traditional Moroccan cuisine. He had apparently been up at 4am buying vegetables for the trip and had personally selected the menus, which turned out to be delicious, varied and enormous. I must admit that I had half expected to be fed boiled camel for a week. 

We retired to bed where by and large most people slept badly. I think it was perhaps that Big Brother feel of being in a building with a whole lot of people you didn’t know. The following morning everyone in our room claimed they hadn’t slept – which was odd because someone had been snoring most of the night. Restful slumber was not helped by a storm in the night, blowing a gale, which caused every door in Africa to bang loudly against its doorframe. I was relieved when we got our 6am wake up call –first from the cockerel and then Mustafa.

After a rudimentary breakfast, handing out of toilet rolls along with matches and rubbish collection bags as well as instructions to bring 3 litres of water each to last us until lunch, we donned rucksacks (Explore had helpfully informed us in the kit list that handbags were not a suitable alternative) and set off. Mustafa led the walk, closely followed by Batman and Robin (f). A Berber who spoke no English and no French followed behind as back marker. The mules were being loaded by the muteers and would follow later.

 

We were lulled into a false sense of security for the early part of the day, the walk being largely flat. In fact it was quite galling to realise that we had dropped from our starting height of 1889m to 1820m. We soon left the dusty road and wound our way through the terraced fields of the farm lands, along narrow tracks and over ingenious bridges made from branches and mud. Around us was high growing vegetation and I mentioned to Panther that it felt like we were soldiers in Vietnam. It was nice to see small delicate flowers from weeds snuggled in amongst the crops. There were splashes of colour all around if you took the time to look.

We passed through the mud streets of villages where children were either dumb struck by our presence, or waved at us, muttering a few words in French. The villages were quiet and peaceful, with occasional flocks of sheep or goats and multitudes of chickens. The women carried babies in makeshift slings, and men walked passed carrying ploughs, and presumably thinking very hard.

Rocky, uneven, steep pathways passed between the mud coated buildings. There seemed to have been no attempt at all to level any ground.

As 9am approached the heat was rising and pleasant cool of early morning became a distant memory.

We started to move away from the villages in the valley, which we could still see in the distance, nestling into the bottom of the hills, built right up into the rock. Catwoman commented that it was a shame she hadn’t been able to take many pictures, but didn’t want to stop. So we made a group decision to have a photo pause - with the exception of Mustafa, Batman and Robin (f) who were already striding out well ahead of us. They did eventually realise we had all stopped.

 

All around us the ground rose upwards to mountains. Spectacularly rugged and sparsely vegetated, the mountains were consisted of terraced cliffs, enormous escarpments, deep gorges and flat topped summits.

The heat continued to rise. As did the path. Unpleasantly so. There was no break from the sun as the line of us zig zagged up a mercilessly hot slope. There were people close behind me so I felt that I couldn’t slow or stop. The path did not provide overtaking room. And it was one of those hills that just kept going. It was not the steepest hill I have ever walked, and yet it seemed incredibly difficult. I started to worry about the week ahead, despite Mustafa’s warning last night not to focus on summit day. Apparently the more you thought about it, the more worked up you would get and ultimately not be able to do it at all.

Panther informed me that she had been concerned about how she would find the hills, having been a hill runner and therefore used to taking these things at speed. Her dark horse revelation of the day.

We stopped at the top for a well needed drink and orange. The onward route flattened out slightly before again launching into a steep cliffside ascent. It was slow, painful, on dry, red, rocky ground. The group started to thin out along the route. There were frequent stops to ‘admire the view’ along the persistent uphill. Robin (f) and Batman were well ahead, right behind Mustafa, not even having the decency to break a sweat.
 

Our mind was taken off the task in hand by occasional insects – huge and brightly coloured. All the insects were far bigger than I have ever seen before. Despite this, I never saw the grasshoppers or whatever it was making a constant humming noise in the low lying scattering of tussocks. I assumed the noise was attributable to insects rather than a particularly bad case of tinitis.

Having reached the top we had another break in which Mustafa handed around a bag of mixed nuts – very mixed, there were nuts of all varieties, dried fruits and a number of completely unidentifiable things. Catwoman picked through the bag to dig out the dried fruit as she didn’t like nuts. With a ‘ready please’ from Mustafa we stood up to carry on. Our next stop was lunch, and downhill all the way, which seemed rather galling. Especially as I had the distinct impression that we had not finished our up for the day.

Beneath some trees a mat was laid out for lunch. Nearby was the chef (Mohammed) with a couple of other muteers preparing lunch, while the lunch carrying mules had time to wander, rest and eat. The remaining mules came along while we were having lunch and carried on to the camp site to get set up. We watched them steadily move on, aware that they were pointing out the onward route to us.

As we had been told, there were two bowls of water set out. One was for washing hands thoroughly with the accompanying soap, while the other, which was laced with bleach, was to be used for a final dipping. This procedure would be followed for every meal to prevent stomach bugs and diarrhoea as far as reasonably possible. We were, after all, now using boulders and shrubbery as toilets so our hands were quickly becoming infested with unmentionable germs.

Lunch was vast. A hot meal, out here, somewhere in the foothills of the mountains. Boots were taken off to keep the mats clean and we sat there amongst occasional very large ants. We ate, and ate and then had about an hour to rest before moving on again.

Using the toilet before we moved on again, I decided to try and burn the paper rather than keep it in our personal little rubbish bags. It wasn’t easy. The matchstick was so feeble that it snapped as soon as any pressure – such as the pressure required to make the end ignite – was applied to it. After a few failed attempts I realised that the only way to get it lit was to hold the part that would ignite, at great personal risk to the end of my fingers. Again there were a few failed attempts, largely due to my being a bit chicken about getting burned. Then bingo. Rather than repeat this dangerous exercise, I simply dropped unlit matches onto the burning paper as and when necessary. Burning damp paper is not easy, and requires much prodding with stick.

I returned to the group delighted. I had made fire. I felt like man who has just done a bar-b-que.

As we were about to move on from lunch it started to rain. Heavily. Appropriately waterproofed, we set off down the hill. The onward route was, accordingly Mustafa, undulating, which he had told us with a smile. As the rain stopped and the heat returned, we soon warmed up and stopped to remove all the clothes we had added. We had also started another hill climb. The landscape constantly changed before us There were thick knarled trees that had been blasted into extraordinary shapes by the wind and small green shrubs that were two shades of a most vivid green. It was hard to believe they could get enough water to appear so lush.

There were a few more steep downs and inevitable ups before the day was finally done, finishing off with a long path around an eternal hill. This path was comprised of small stones so that it moved beneath your feet with every step which caused a problem for Boyfriend, whose knee rebelled at one point. Joker followed behind, slowly. At the time we thought he was exercising caution but later realised that his knee was causing him a serious problem.

As we rounded yet another corner we could see the first camp site in the valley below, with a large white kitchen tent and mess tent, seven tents for us to sleep in and a new luxury – a toilet tent. This was the first trip that the toilet tent had been used, and basically consisted of a 10 foot high square tent, and a hole in the ground. This hole was rapidly used, but as it took a while for the urine to drain away it filled rapidly. Fortunately no one had yet done anything sinister in it. And the option of burning your paper was not to be taken if you were in the toilet tent. No naked flames there, where there was more methane than oxygen, unless you had pyromaniac tendencies – and liked getting first degree burns.

 

We sat outside and had mint tea (the biscuits had been left behind!) followed by a beer, careful where we sat. The ground was randomly covered with small green shrubs, large numbers of which were fearsomely prickly.

I suggested a musical chairs style game whereby we moved around and sat down, just to see whether, despite our aching thighs we could launch ourselves rapidly off the ground if required. No one else seemed up for the idea.

 

Joker had suggested that we engage in a stretching session but wasn’t prepared to initiate this – describing himself as a follower rather than a leader. A few of us did indulge a some much needed limbering up. As we sat there children came up with baskets of fresh eggs – a strikingly pretty girl, followed by two shy boys. The children were tiny and we assumed they were around age 5. It seemed that they were nearer 10. The life they led did not allow the growth we have become accustomed to in England. Mustafa spoke to them in their language. Because he was a local man he had the trust of the villagers. They knew him and could communicate with him. At times he appeared like a benefactor to the Berber peoples. He paid over the odds for the eggs.

I made a final visit to the toilet tent before dinner. It was still quite full of liquid, but now there was the added fun of a healthy (i.e. floating) turd to chase around the hole.

We changed out of our boots, and into more comfortable clothing before retiring to the mess tent for dinner. A three course dinner no less. Soup, vast servings of vegetables, melon, followed by hot drinks. As dinner included meat, Catwoman (who was vegetarian) was treated to an omelette made with the fresh eggs. She told me later that she didn’t like omelettes, but didn’t have the heart to tell Mustafa as he had gone to the trouble of organising what he had thought would be a nice meal for her.

Joker leant his lip cream to Batgirl and Huntress who asked ‘is this the stuff that makes your lips white’. ‘No’ replied Joker, unaware until that moment that the cream did in fact make his lips white.

Over dinner Mustafa briefed us on the route for the following day. He had been ever so economical with the truth so far and we were learning that when he smiled it normally presaged bad news. He told us, smiling, that the first day is always the worst before going on to describe what sounded like an equally unpleasant one for tomorrow.

That day we had walked 15.4 miles in 6 hours moving time, at an average speed of 2.6mph, a total ascent of 1177m and total descent of 697m ending up at the camp altitude of 2281m.

Later that evening as Boyfriend and I lay in out tent trying to sleep we overheard Panther and Catwoman in the tent next door. It seemed that a large cricket had joined them in their tent and we giggled at the sounds of them trying to remove it. Catwoman also informed Panther that she kept going through the tougher parts of the day by imagining she was trying to escape over the border into Pakistan.

As they finally reached a stage of opening the tent to let out the cricket Catwoman whispered ‘I need to break wind’ and was going to make a second use of the open tent. I was most relieved. All this healthy diet of fruit and vegetables as well as large quantity of exercise – not to mention the gas expanding effects of altitude – was already having effects on my system. It was nice to know that it was affecting someone else as well.

Our tents had been put up by the muteers, without any attempt to move a single rock that lay beneath them. Despite this, I managed to have a most excellent nights sleep. I woke early requiring a visit to the toilet tent. At some point between when I last used it and now it had been considerably back filled.

The stench was one thing, but what I considered worse was the enormous population of flies. I tried to waft them away, preferring not to dangle my intimate parts any near them. Most dutifully flew to the top of the tent, banging against the roof in clear annoyance. I was soon out of there.

As I stood outside the tent cleaning my teeth Joker observed that there would be one happy dung beetle when he stumbled upon that lot. At that point I looked up to see a mule standing there, his tail raised, letting of a huge long loud fart. Naturally I commented. It seemed rude not to. Joker, however, was under the impression that it was I who had broken wind rather than the mule. I did try and explain to him that I would have proudly confessed to so great a fart, but it made little impact. It must have been around this time that I let on to Catwoman and Panther that I had overheard their conversation of the previous night and it then transpired that both Catwoman and I had sat through the previous evenings dinner desperately clenching against farts, frightened to relax  - just in case. A bond had been made.

Joker’s knee was still bad. We had leant him some ibuprofen gel to ease the pain and he had also been given numerous knee supports. He thanked us profusely and announced that the circulation in his leg had now completely stopped.

We took down our tents and breakfasted on porridge and honey. Except Huntress. It seemed that she had been very ill during the night, extreme projectile vomiting. She was struggling to even hold down water.

It was hot before we started off at 7am with a rather depressing downhill ascent to 1910m – nearly the altitude we had started at.

 

The hillsides we walked through had an ever changing variety of rock, from the dry red earth to black slate. The deeply dissected range exposed a thick sequence of sedimentary and volcanic rock, intersected with granite. Joker slowly negotiated his way along the steep hillside paths, peppered with tiny stones that could take the legs from under an unsuspecting trekker. Huntress also followed slowly, dehydrated and hungry, and still pausing to vomit at appropriate moments. I had started to feel nauseous the previous evening, which I knew that one of the effects of altitude. The problem was that we weren’t really that high so it was hard to know if the feeling was altitude related or something more sinister. I didn’t feel that I was going to be sick, and was still able to eat and drink so decided not to worry about it for the time being.

We stopped at the bottom of one ravine for a break. Steps had been cut into the hillside, and were now used to grow crops. Here, so far from any villages, the need for crops was demonstrated. No wonder the Berber people were so fit. The only way to and from this site involved steep hill slopes. Mustafa explained that the local people would build walls into the hill sides and then wait for erosion to take effect, thereby making the stepped farm strips.

I had noticed the previous day the smells from the plants. Lavender, rosemary, thyme and mint grew wild and in abundance. Now we were amongst juniper bushes. As I pointed out to Robin (m) and Mrs Pennyworth, all we need was some quinine bark and we were all set to make a G&T that I had not until this moment realised was such an organic drink.

We waited at our stop point while the mules came down the zig zag path, and passed us. Never losing a step or slipping, carrying their huge burden of kit they negotiated these narrow, uneven, tracks that we had slipped and skidded along.

The mountain slopes were well populated. Gorge scarred landscape dropped down into lush valleys with terraced villages where flat roofed earthen kasbahs clung tenaciously to the slopes while irrigated farmed plots flourished below.

 

We came down into one such village called Ghoughoult. Children who lined the dusty pathways stopped to stare at us, murmuring words in French or holding out their hands for gifts. Mustafa had told us not to give them anything. He explained that today they are asking for a ‘stilo’ (pen), but if we give them that then they will eventually end up being sent out by their parents to beg for money – as opposed to working the farms or going to school. Again I got a sense of his belonging to these people, not wanting to make beggars out of the children.

The village was at the bottom of the valley with a river running through it. The land was heavily farmed and the fields were already filled with women and children – who stopped and looked up at us as we passed.

We were stopping in the village to have tea and freshly made bread in one of the Berber houses. From the outside it was little more than a mud shack. But inside was dark, roomy and cool. I used the toilet – which was an alarming experience – a spacious room with the once white porcelain tucked away right at the end. It was damp everywhere and did nothing for my still present nausea.

We took off our boots and rucksacks and went into the guest room for tea. The room was whitewashed with colourful decorations painted onto the ceiling and the floor lined with rugs and sheepskins. Cushions had been placed around the room for us to lean on. Mustafa started to prepare the mint tea, which for the first time seemed very ceremonial. He explained that really it was tea with mint as opposed to mint tea. In other words, normal tea with a sprig of fresh mint infused into it. I wasn’t sure if I wanted the sweet, sickly drink. Mustafa waved huge lump of sugar in the teapot, adding the sickly sweetness. This naturally led to queries about the form sugar came in. After a few words to the boy of the house the child returned with a large conical completely solid lump of sugar that Mustafa told us would last a typical family one week.

Warm freshly made bread appeared along with bowls of what I think was butter. Mustafa broke the circular low risen bread loaves into pizza slice shapes and demonstrated how you tear a lump off the end of the bread, open the bread and use the lump to scoop up butter and add it to the bread. Not able to face the butter, I just ate the bread. And wasn’t able to eat much of that.

Outside we could hear girls singing. This served as a suitable demonstration to Mustafa of how happy the women were, working in the fields and carrying loads. It was apparently a harvest song. As the singing grew louder we looked out of the window to see huge bales of straw moving along the street below us beneath which were tiny women, singing their hearts out. Happy because they didn’t have to think, apparently. They certainly seemed, or at least sounded happy.

 

 

Tea over, we emerged into the heat outside to continue our walk, which would lead us up river. Being summer, the river itself was little more than a stream running through a ravine that had clearly been made by thousands of years of water flow.

The path crossed and re-crossed the river countless times and surreptitiously gained height. It was a beautiful setting, ice cold water and burning hot rock faces in a whole variety of colours and formations, looking as though they had just tumbled over, such was the pattern on them.

Batgirl had a moment’s hesitation at one river crossing. Her body however was not hesitating and the resultant conflict made her slip and smash her shin into a boulder. It was grazed and started to come up with a promisingly impressive bruise.

The sun continued to beat down on us, so it was nice to get splashed up the back of your legs with the icy water from the river as temporary refreshment. Walking with Catwoman I urged her on to make her escape over the border. She was going steadily as the path was rock strewn and uneven. I agreed that caution would be better than a twisted ankle. Then we would have to smuggle her over the border in the panniers of the mules. The image of this caused a temporary hilarity.

Huntress, having managed to keep some anti nausea pills inside was starting to feel better but still suffering from a distinct lack of energy. The unremitting downhill of the early morning had done no favours at all for Joker’s knee. Somewhere in the distance ahead was Mustafa closely followed by Batman and Robin (f). We rather hoped they would start to flag, but it was not to be. In between them and us were Mrs Pennyworth and Robin (m) who now and then stopped to indicate the onward route to us. However, at times, as we wound our way through the snaking ravine we lost sight of everyone. Looking for footprints, or trying to use our initiative we would attempt to fathom out the route. But on occasion the silent, bored back marker would run ahead to show us the way. Or call out to let us know we were going wrong. So when we were rounding one particular bend and heard frantic calling I initially thought that we were going wrong. Until we saw a boy on the hillside, clearly excited to see anyone at all in this remoteness.

 

At the appropriate time we stopped in the shelter of a tree for lunch. Another sumptuous feasting, which included tinned sardines. Joker asked Mustafa if the fish had been caught in the stream that ran passed us. As we made our way onwards the lunch mules were being re-packed and we walked passed them.

Joker helpfully informed me that if I was feeling windy, now would be a good time as we were right next to a mule. He then went on to say that he was tempted to get a mule at home, that it would come in handy for dinner parties.

We continued with a relentless uphill walk. As we rose above the river the gorge flattened out into a lush green valley, encircled by large hills. This was not a good sign. There was a large hill straight ahead, the Tizi n’Ghoughoult. And yes, we were going up it. Half way up, and getting dizzy from zigs and zags I could hear a series of thuds all around me. Huge crickets were plummeting to the ground. Looking up I could see dozens of them in the sky. I’m not sure if they were there deliberately or had been picked up by the wind, but they quickly and loudly deposited themselves around us.

Step by step we inched our way up the hill. Mustafa stopped mid way up and it was here that I sat down only to leap up a few second later as I had placed myself onto a small but rather pierce prickly thing. I suppose it was just dessert for my previous days game idea. Boyfriend felt that the offending prickle deserved to be immortalised in a photograph, much to the amusement of the group. Having gained height we had left the trees below us and were instead surrounded by these ‘hedgehog plants’, spiny, domed bushes that have adapted to the dry conditions.

 

While we sat there, getting our breath back, a short Berber man in sandals and old, dirty clothing came and spoke to Mustafa. After he left, skipping down the hill we had half climbed Mustafa explained that he was from a village over the hill. His wife and child were sick and he needed to get medical supplies. From what I understood it seemed he was going to the village where we had had tea and bread several hours ago. For him, it was like walking to the newsagents, and rather humbled those of us who were feeling the burn. He needed Mustafa’s written assurances as the man had no money.

‘Ready please’ indicated it was time we continued on up the hill, which never let up its steepness. To our right was the jagged edge of the plateau that towered over us at the first campsite. It seemed much nearer now. On reaching the top the clouds came in over us and the temperature dropped.

 

As we sat there resting, knowing the camp was just ahead, in the valley below, I looked out at the surrounding mountains. I pointed out to whoever was interested the sudden breast shaped mound on a distant ridge. Re-phrasing it as a pap, which seemed to cause less disturbance Boyfriend helpfully observed that it had no nipple. As a result of things that are not clear to me, Catwoman and I decided that what it needed was a huge golden nipple that would gleam in the sun and suddenly The Quest of the Golden Nipple was born.

As we walked down the other side of the hill towards the campsite I told Catwoman that I thought we had lost her pursuing enemy in the cloud and that we were safe. We agreed that a new encouragement plot was required for the morrow. After many many bad ideas we came up with needing to get to the doctor for medical supplies – taking influence from local events. We also decided that the plot for summit day could be Sam and Frodo taking the ring up the mountain to the fires of Mordor, and started practising our Sam and Frodo impressions that would be required. Unfortunately, despite over 9 hours of film, the only things we could remember them ever saying was ‘Come on Master Frodo’ and ‘Oh Sam’. The Quest of the Golden Nipple was still a hot favourite.

 

Penguin was with us as we walked down the hill, but kept quiet. I think he was afraid. The uphill had been eternal, and the down was equally long. So, to add some extra impetus we imagined that we needed to get to the shops to buy donuts before they closed. Catwoman did actually speed up. As we later pointed to Joker, as women don’t need to think then all we are left with is an active imagination.

 

Eventually arriving at the camp we mustered for mint tea, and the biscuits, which had now appeared – no one really knew how. I noticed how filthy most people’s legs were. Seriously properly filthy. I felt like writing in the dirt on mine ‘also available in white’.

We sat in the mess tent to while away the time between mint tea and dinner while some of the group made use of the nearby spring. It was only when my back really started to burn that I realised I was sitting backed up to the kettle. Deciding it was time to clean up and change I performed the limbo dance routine that was necessary to exit and enter the mess tent.

From the camp we could see the steep scree slope up to the top of the Tarkeddid Plateau, which Mustafa had told us, with a smile, was the start of tomorrow’s walk. It was best not to look.

Boyfriend and I discussed the effects of altitude with Panther, one of which is to raise your blood pressure. Panther was aware that you could get nosebleeds when high up, but hadn’t realised that the increased blood pressure was perhaps instrumental in this. Boyfriend, already having raised blood pressure, was concerned about this. Panther let slip another dark horse secret – she also had high blood pressure.

Over dinner it all really did come out. First of all, Catwoman confessed to me that she was suppressing a need to fart. Not wanting to do it right there, I suggested that she hang her bum out of the tent to do the necessary. But, she queried, what would she occupy herself with to remove any questions from the rest of the group in the tent. Re-arranging the sandals at the entrance, I replied. The plan was set. The one thing we had not allowed for was Mustafa returning with a tureen of soup, preventing Catwoman from achieving her task. Panther had got wind (pardon the pun) of what was going on and asked if it had been successful. ‘No’, replied Catwoman, ‘Mustafa came along’. Hearing his name Mustafa then asked what we were talking about. It was too late to back out now, so we announced to the whole group that Catwoman had needed, and probably still did need to, fart. Apparently Mustafa wouldn’t have minded.

Boyfriend, Catwoman, Panther and I then started talking with a certain amount of hilarity about our motivational plots for the week. Mrs Pennyworth then surprised us all by coming out as one of us – she had got through today by imagining she was being pursued by the Indians, who were peering down from the mountain tops into the gorge where we were walking. She then outed Robin (m) saying that he had spent the day tracking, and was therefore in the spirit of the Indian theme. He denied this profusely, claiming that he had just been looking for footprints to establish the onward path when Mustafa was out of sight. That’s tracking, we all decided. He was not amused.

Robin (f) and Batman looked on bemused, having been too far ahead to be aware of any of this insanity going on behind them. Penguin still looked afraid and Joker realised why women could not be trusted with rational thought.

Mustafa smiled sympathetically and briefly considered waking us up tomorrow with Indian style war cry.

During dinner Batman farted. Loudly and unexpectedly. Catwoman and I noticed, looked at him (he was trying to look innocent) and smiled. No one else batted an eyelid. It was a good sign.

As we sat around the tent there was a pervading smell of feet. We were starting to get dirty.

We sat around three sides of the tent, and Mustafa sat on the fourth, with his back to the entrance, serving our food. He passed round cutlery and food. The idea was that he would pass half along the side to his right and half along the other side, on his left. Having managed this most successfully the previous evening we were now tired. And consequently passed the plates of food the entire way round the tent. He looked up at us in despair. Shaking his head.

We had already been talking about sharing photos at the end via a website when we told Penguin that evening he had been nominated to set a website up, being a bit IT inclined. He looked at us surprised, and still quite scared, so Joker explained that the decision had been made in Penguin’s absence and there had been no dissent.

We had fresh bread for dinner, warm and flat. It wasn’t until the next day that Mustafa told us the bread had in fact not risen, and wasn’t meant to have been like that.

When we left the mess tent it was dark, a beautiful starry night with a large bright moon. I may have been imagining it, but the stars seemed closer, bigger.

Our achievement for the day was 9.2 miles in 4.5 hours moving on average at 1.9 mph. Our total ascent was 1427m with a total descent of 1177m ending up at a height of 2587m.

That night I again slept soundly, although it was a little cooler. In the morning I got up early and the valley below us was filled with cloud, the sun only just starting to pick out the summits of the surrounding mountains. It was calm and beautiful.

 

After breakfast, and some more of the unrisen bread, we waited for our tents to dry in the sun before taking them down. Consequently we ended up leaving at around 8.30am instead of 7.00am.

Fortunately the scree slope was largely in the shade as we started our steady plod up it. Ahead of us a young boy with a large bag thrown over his shoulder bounced up the zig zagging path. I followed in Catwoman’s footsteps, keeping going only because she was. Both of us thinking about getting medical supplies. Boyfriend started to fall behind, the back marker following him, hands in his pockets, wondering what all the fuss was about.

Robin (f) and Batman stayed behind Mustafa the whole way. We had rather hoped they would give us the gratification of falling back – just a little. But still it was not to be. As we approached the rocky edges of the plateau (although I hasten to add, not anywhere near the top yet) Mustafa stopped for a break. If he hadn’t I would have anyway. Robin (f) wanted to carry on – the woman was deranged. I asked Mustafa if it flattened out a bit after this. Undulating he replied, smiling.

Joker and I later agreed that what Mustafa calls undulating we call hilly. What he calls hilly we would consider mountainous.

We continued the relentless climb up, by now out of the protection of the overhanging plateau edge and therefore at the full mercy of the sun. We moved off the track to let the mules passed and gently plodded onwards and eternally upwards. Mrs Pennyworth had suggested that one way to take your mind off the climb – other than imagining imminent attack from the Indians – was to count to 100 in 3’s. I did this – it was too easy and therefore didn’t take up much time but certainly diverted my attention. So I did I kept doing it, with different numbers.

Boyfriend was starting to suffer. It had already been noticed in the evenings that his clothes had large visible salt lines on them from his sweat that actually felt raised when you touched them. All of us were sweating, but no one else left such obvious salt deposits.

When we finally reached the top he sat down, exhausted and light headed. Seeing hexagons, as he phrased it. Two small boys were lying in the grass and Mustafa informed us they were shepherds, and that the boy we had seen earlier leaping up the scree slope was bringing supplies to them.

As we walked across the plateau there was a hum of life. Herds of goats, sheep, and cows with accompanied by children. The plateau was, at last, flat. Not an undulation in sight. Like all the mountains, it was covered with verdant greenery, even grassy slopes scattered here and there. However, at approximately 3000m and with no relief from the sun it was hot. Unforgivingly hot. Towards us came four children with a donkey. They stopped to speak to Mustafa. It seemed that the older boy, who was holding the rope, which went around the donkey’s neck, had sore, infected lips. We searched our medical kits but no one had antiseptic cream on them. Mustafa cleaned them with a medicated wipe and applied liberal helpings of sun cream to all the children. They stood there, shyly smiling and giggling, clean but in well worn, dirty clothes. They were attractive, striking looking, but their hands showed signs of hard manual work. Already. We could only guess at the sort of life they led.

But, however we may be critical of it, they were healthy and happy. And that had to count for something. Mustafa gave them each a sweet before we moved on. Again there was the feeling of him being a benefactor to his people, having the good luck to be well employed and in a position to help wherever he could.

Suitably attended to the children continued on their way. It reminded me that these paths were not here and maintained purely for the purposes of people such as us to trek along. They were well worn because they were in daily use, as part of the local peoples way of life. It was the way to the fields for their herds, or to the village to sell their wares and buy food. This was their local network of roads. Their equivalent of the M25.

We passed stone huts that were used by nomadic peoples in warmer months, who then populated this area. A small boy stood in the middle of the path as we walked around him, nearly stumbling into him. He just stood there smiling up at us. You couldn’t help but like these people. There was an honesty about them, and a genuine friendliness. I could understand why Mustafa was keen not to make beggars out of them although it was difficult not to give in to their sweet smiles and pleading looks. After all, what was a pen to us. However, we all respected Mustafa’s views on this.

The landscape continually moved and changed before us. To our right was the imposing, grey ridge that housed the summit we were climbing tomorrow. But on the plateau there was constant life and constant change, the red rocks looking almost prehistoric in their formation.

The path started down off the plateau into the valley below. On the way down we bumped into Panther leaning against a rock. She said that her knees were hurting. I think all our knees were.

So she joined Boyfriend, Catwoman and me as we continued onward slowly, taking care over every step but still skidding down the slopes here and there nonetheless. We came close to a herd of sheep and goats with their young who bleated in panic stricken high pitched voices as we approached. It was all too much for Catwoman to contain herself and within seconds she was engrossed in conversation with them. It took her mind off the bad clothes day she was having – shirt riding up her back, shorts falling down and knickers up her bum.

Panther then eased in her dark horse revelation of the day, letting us know that she could design websites and wouldn’t mind doing the group website if Penguin was feeling slightly imposed on.

During most of this part of the walk a man was shadowing us, a feet further up the hill. If we stopped, so did he. It was all very odd until Mrs Pennyworth reasoned that it was an Indian spy trying to find out where we were camping so that they could attack us.

At last we could see the camp in the green fields ahead. Well, we could see lots of camps and assumed one was ours. Mustafa had told us that we would be putting up our tents.

Given that thus far the muteers had put them up and we had taken them down I reasoned that if we were putting them up then that implied a very early start not to be hampered by tent deconstruction, which was presumably being left to the muteers instead. Joker followed my logic with equal concern. We had been up at 6.30am every day already, so an early start would be quite seriously early.

We arrived at the camp in time for lunch – and had the remainder of the day to rest. I’m not sure if it was the heat, or the long flat walk to camp, or trepidation about the following day but when we got there I felt very poorly. Initially Boyfriend, me and Batman lay sleeping in the mess tent while everyone else assembled tents and busied themselves. Not wanting to collapse in too much of a heap in clear public view I persuaded Boyfriend that we ought to put up our tent. We did so, but it was boiling inside. I lay in there anyway, still feeling awful but for no reason that I could put my finger on. So I lay there, semi sleeping, and gently crying. In hindsight I think that I had not drunk enough that afternoon, and perhaps been affected by the sun. Walking on flat can make you forget that you need fluid in a way you can’t forget when exerting yourself.

 

After a while I decided to make use of the nearby water supply to have a wash. Boyfriend collected a bowl of water for me and we went over to the drain – which is located some way from the water source to avoid pollution. I splashed the freezing water onto my face, and rinsed my again filthy legs. I made the mistake of asking Boyfriend to rub a wet hand up my back in some semblance of cleaning.

It was freezing – and he did it twice. I also scrubbed my nails for several minutes in at attempt to clean out the well imbedded blackness that resided beneath them. During today’s walk I had noticed that Robin’s (f) fingernails were not only unbroken or even chipped as yet but were immaculately clean. I have no idea how she did it, but I was determined to try.

In an attempt to make myself feel more human I decided to wash my hair – with Boyfriend’s assistance. It hadn’t been washed for 4 days, and to be honest I was surprised it didn’t feel more filthy. Boyfriend was unexpectedly keen to douse my head with freezing water to get it wet enough to lather the shampoo.

I rinsed it as best I could by dipping my head into the bowl before asking Boyfriend to pour the remaining water over my head to rinse off the remaining shampoo. In hindsight, and recalling my guttural yelps that was probably a mistake. Boyfriend tried to take my mind off it by pointing out the now black water. I had had the foresight to get a leave in conditioner, so didn’t need to go through a second dousing.

Thus enlivened we returned to the tent and I started to feel more human.

Others had used the water supply to get some washing done, and damp clothes were strewn over the guy ropes of most of the tents – which included Joker’s underwear. There was a tent in the middle of the site where we were camped, which was a shop, selling fizzy drinks and chocolate. Joker thought it ought to sell inflatable armchairs and other useful items such as toilet roll and matches. He also wondered whether the building on the ridge opposite was a bar. I think the altitude had got to him.

Maybe he was just thinking too hard for all of us – although not thinking enough to try and get a girl to have done his washing for him.

We had our daily mint tea and then a short stroll along the valley beyond our campsite. It really was a gentle amble, and on the flat. But Boyfriend, Catwoman, Panther and I all found ourselves completely breathless, due entirely to the thinner air up here.

Today we had covered 8.55 miles in 3.44 hours moving at an average speed of 2.3 mph. Our total ascent had been 732m with a total descent of 432m and our final camp altitude was 2934m. It was higher than I had ever stood before.

 

From the rim of the valley Mustafa showed us the following days objective. It looked steep and difficult. The summit was in cloud so it was hard to appreciate the full implication of the day. The alternative route was straight ahead through the valley. It was shorter, but looked no easier consisting of a lot of steep down followed by a lot of steep up. However, Joker was in two minds about his ability to do the summit. His knee was still causing him considerable pain and difficulty and, understandably, he was concerned about damaging it further. As we walked back to the camp for dinner Catwoman confessed that she was worried about the ridge we would need to walk along to the summit, not being good with edges that fall away from you. Today’s steep scree slope had apparently terrified her and she started to get tearful as she spoke to us, apologising for getting emotional. Panther, whose dislike of edges is already well documented, was similarly concerned. They decided to speak seriously to Mustafa in the hope of extracting some honesty from him about the route. Honesty had previously been difficult to get.

I made a pre-dinner visit to the toilet tent – which was ‘amusingly’ built just across a small but deep stream and I wondered how many people would mid judge the jump in the night. At last the muteers had got the size and depth of the hole just right. I didn’t envy whomever it was who had to fill it in again – although to be fair, so far it had needed little more re-filling than a layer of soil over the top.

Unfortunately Panther succumbed to ill health and was not able to join us for dinner. Her health deteriorated and we ate to the backing sound of her vomiting. Dinner was an ominously large serving of pasta. Very few of us managed to finish it and no one asked for seconds – a complete first.  Perhaps if I had been sat at a table rather than crouched on the floor I would have done better. I tried to eat and eat, knowing full well that I would need all this and more tomorrow.

Over hot drinks and South London tea, as usual, Mustafa did his briefing for the following day. He explained the dangers of high altitude sickness, things that many of us were already feeling – the dizziness, nausea, headaches, talking gibberish. Joker wondered how anyone would know if the likes of Catwoman and me were talking nonsense – would there, in fact, be any change at all. The back marker was going to lead the walk and Mustafa would bring up the rear so that he could keep an eye on anyone who was poorly.

We asked what time we would be getting up. Mustafa smiled. That smile. The smile that meant you don’t want to hear the next bit. And he was right. 4am. Breakfast at 4.30, set off at 5.30am. I tried to remind myself this was a holiday. Hey, everyone gets up at 4am on holiday.

He asked if we had appropriate hats. Robin (m) was concerned that all he had was a cap, so Mustafa leant him one of his blue headscarves.

Catwoman kept ducking in and out checking on Panther. It seemed she was getting cold. Mustafa decided to swap sleeping bags with Panther, his being considerably warmer and thicker. He duly pulled his sleeping bag out of it container. Then he reached into his rucksack and pulled out that vital piece of kit, which any self respecting trekker ought to carry. Mrs Pennyworth caught sight of it first, and shrieked with laughter. Sheepishly Mustafa turned around, smiled, and held it up to the group announcing ‘Hugo Boss’, before liberally spraying his sleeping bag with it. Apparently, the sleeping bag had been taken on more or less back to back treks for 2 years and never washed. He was concerned that it might smell unpleasant. We didn’t stop laughing for several minutes. Of all the things to bring – just in case. No one else, it transpired, had any sort of aftershave or perfume at all.

Catwoman took the sleeping to Panther and returned empty handed. Mustafa had been expecting Panther’s sleeping bag in return, and he looked at Catwoman questioningly as she explained that Panther was asleep so she had laid his bag over her for the time being rather than disturb her.

Outside we could hear singing and a drum beat. I asked Joker whether the bar had advertised live music tonight.

It was cold that night so I put lots of clothes on before getting into my sleeping bag. Robin (f) had said that the thermal effects of sleeping bags don’t work if you do that, and you’re better of putting layers on top of the bag. I accepted that theory but also knew that as soon as I turned over, everything would fall off. Indeed, the next day, Mrs Pennyworth said the very same – she had started with everything on top of her, and after rolling over ended up putting it all on instead.

As we went to bed, Boyfriend wasn’t sure if he would do the summit tomorrow or the valley. He had found today’s climb difficult and was feeling the effects of the altitude already. I think in the end his decision lay in what Joker would do.

I slept badly. Partly because I needed the toilet in the night and was reluctant to go because I was worried about getting cold, and not warming up again. In the end I had to go. It was wonderfully bright outside. The sky again peppered with huge bright stars, and the moon smiling down on us.

I leapt the stream going back to the tent and was so pleased with myself that I forgot the tiny matter of they tent guy ropes. Stumbling over these, cursing, I got back into the tent and in pitch blackness got back into my fleece lined sleeping bag (which means I got into my fleece liner which was inside the sleeping bag, in the dark – be impressed).

At 4am Mustafa came round to wake us. Boyfriend and I were already awake, with our light on.  We rolled in to breakfast. There was something about that 4.30am breakfast of porridge.  All of us sitting there in waterproofs and hats and utter silence. A bleary eyed look on all our faces. For the first time the water and bleach to wash our hands in was warm rather than the usual completely freezing. We were told to take care if making a final visit to the toilet tent – it seemed that someone had missed the hole.

Panther would not be coming. She had no food left inside her and was visibly weak and feeble. Instead she would be taken by mule to the next camp. Joker had decided to go for it. Robin’s (m) head had been duly turbanised by Mustafa so he now really looked the part.

It was still dark, and we saw the sun rise over the valley. It was only just daylight when we set off – the sun not yet soiled by the heat and sweat of the day. It was hard from the beginning, partly because of the cold, partly because we were breathless anyway – let alone once some activity was thrown in. Not undulating so much as upulating. We knew there were 5 stops to the ridge, one every 200m. Psychologically that helped and Mustafa had said that the day was psychological as much as it was physical. It was uphill almost immediately and I welcomed the first stop. We carried onward, and towards the next stop there was some relief as the path flattened out a little, reaching the first bit of snow that Mustafa had pointed out to us the previous day. It was completely frozen. We stopped for a photo. Boyfriend was already suffering and when he got to the stop I asked how he was. ‘Dizzy and nauseous’ was the response, so I told him to let Mustafa know, so that he could keep an eye on him.

Joker and Penguin were walking with Catwoman and I, and to take our minds of the task in hand I suggested a singsong. We had no energy to actually sing but came up with ‘I’m on top of the world’, ‘river deep, mountain high’, ‘on top of old smokey’ and’ she’ll be coming round the mountain’. As we plodded along one particular slope en mass, the low sun cast long shadows of us down the mountain. Catwoman noticed it too. It was an incredible sight, a line of lone trekkers out there in the wilderness.

The path now started to move significantly uphill on unforgiving grey scree slopes. Frodo and Sam urged each other on in turn. We reached the third stop. We had already gained significant height and were starting to be rewarded with wonderful views. The sun had still not properly risen so we were in a balmy cool – if not cold. In the wind it was very cold. As we stood up to move on Mustafa warned that the next bit was the worst, so pace ourselves. By now, like mules, we had our pecking order. As we stood up to go on, by now mimicking Mustafa’s ‘ready please’ which rang round the group, we fell in, Robin (f), Batman, Robin (m), Mrs Pennyworth – who I don’t think really wanted to be there, then Catwoman, me, Penguin and Joker mingled, followed by Huntress, Batgirl and Boyfriend. 

For once Mustafa wasn’t lying. The next section was tough. Very tough. I walked closely behind Catwoman, looking only at her feet, never looking up at how far there was left to go. Now and then murmuring encouragement to Sam or Frodo or whoever she was at that particular moment, and she murmured similar encouragement back.

We would look ahead to pick regular resting points, something to aim for. After a while she asked if someone else could go in front as she was finding it tiring to keep looking ahead to see where the path was. She stepped aside and I carried on ahead. Now being the pace setter it was actually quite difficult to maintain a steady plod plod rhythm.

To keep ourselves spurred on we nominated Penguin – trapped behind us – as Gollom. However, he completely refused to play.

As I meandered up the slope I told Catwoman that I didn’t really know where I was going – which they had realised, but followed me none the less – and that if I had more energy I would have taken them all round the houses.

Not before time, the path started to lessen in steepness. Feeling a Kodak moment coming on (nothing to do with a good excuse for a break) Catwoman and I paused. Penguin, at last free to pass us quite literally ran on to the rocks where the first half of the group was already huddled. He was afraid, very afraid.

Catwoman told me that she had never climbed a mountain in her pyjamas before. Frankly there was no response to that. And she was wearing the trousers that she had been sleeping in all week. Maybe they needed an airing.

Boyfriend eventually joined us and more or less collapsed in a heap against the rocks. He was in a bad way, and there was nothing anyone could do to help him. From this stop we could see the ridge to the summit and I noticed a couple of rather cheeky up hills that made my heart sink. We carried on towards the ridge. The path was no longer steep but it was still uphill. Eternally, unceasingly uphill. I could feel the last remnants of energy leaving my legs. My arms were already useless as I had depended on them with my walking pole to get up to where we where. I hoped the worst was over, because before long I would be running on empty.

As we approached the ridge there was more snow, surprisingly not frozen like the snow lower down. We walked through it. ‘This is the real thing’ I commented to Catwoman. At the end of the snow drift was a narrow path across a long, steep sided scree slope. Catwoman took one look at it and hated it. The back marker (now leading), Batman, Robin (f), Robin (m) and Mrs Pennyworth were already some way across it. I asked Catwoman if she wanted to wait for the others to catch up so that there could be someone ahead of her and someone behind. This was definitely what she wanted to do. We were about to start our crossing when I heard a shriek behind me – Batgirl and Huntress’s hats had both been snatched off their heads by a sudden gust of wind. Mustafa ran around collecting them before we set off along the path.

 

Boyfriend went first, holding Catwoman’s hand while she buried her head in her outstretched arm, commenting that she felt like a donkey being led. Mustafa ran slightly up the slope, sprinted passed us and then ran back down below the path so that he could speak to Catwoman. I wondered if his athletics and resultant dislodgement of scree above us was helping. He hadn’t known Catwoman’s concerns about such paths and seemed rather upset that she hadn’t told him.

We got to our 5^th stop. We were on the ridge. I tried to eat some jelly babies but felt so nauseous that it was hard work. Boyfriend was in bits. We carried on, again falling into our correct order much to Mustafa’s amusement. On the ridge it was windy. I kept my walking pole to hand as an extra prop in case I got suddenly blown. It was useless in all other respects, my arms resembling something akin to blancmange. And usage of it was made all the more difficult by the wind blowing it sharply to the side every time I put it out in front of me.

We went up the first slope on the ridge that I had seen. I could feel the remnants of energy in me go and my legs started to join my arms with a jelly like feel. This was not good. I was dizzy and nauseous and unsure whether this was as a result of arduous exercise on empty stomach or the altitude. I had no energy left and my stomach was rumbling.

 

The ridge narrowed considerably with stunning sheer drops down scree slopes either side. In the distance, and far below I could see fields. It was like the view from the aeroplane door before I jump. Which made sense – that was the height we were at. And part of me wanted to jump.

We started on the final long climb to the summit. The path zig zagged up and the wind got stronger which made it all the more difficult. On the zigs the wind was in your face, making you fight for it, and the zags were too short for the following wind to assist much in pushing you up.

I was hungry and needed food. But, feeling sick, didn’t want any of the sweet sugary stuff that I had with me. I decided to have something at the next break. As I passed Catwoman she asked if I was ok. ‘No’, I replied. Mustafa overheard. At the next stop he came over and asked how I was. I explained that I was just tired. I couldn’t be bothered to go into any more detail. Planning food I was fit to kill when Mustafa asked us to move on for another 20 minutes or so to the summit.

 

We all lined up and plodded painfully slowly upwards, frequently stopping which upset the whole rhythm of the thing so that I kept burying my head in the rucksack in front of me. After a few minutes the pace sorted itself out and we summited as a group. Mustafa shook hands, hugged and kissed us. I promptly burst into tears and Boyfriend wiped them away as they ran beneath my sun glasses. It had been emotional and I had earned this summit. It was the overwhelming sense of achieving something that most people never have. And something that had required every ounce of strength and energy and perseverance in me. I had had to keep reminding myself I was strong enough and good enough. And I so nearly wasn’t.

 

It was very windy on the summit. Mustafa took group photos with everyone’s cameras. At some point he managed to drop the lens cap of his own camera, which blew away across the steep sides of the summit. Undeterred he sprinted after it, giving no thought at all to his location. He did manage to retrieve the lens cap.

After taking all necessary pictures and ever so slightly destroying the small cairn which marked the top we moved down the other side for a proper rest – and another helping of Mustafa’s nuts. Below us a steep scree slope fell down away from the summit. Mustafa told us to put on gloves, put away poles and run down it.

Now I have done a few wild things in my time, but even I looked down this slope with the thought ‘you’re having a laugh’. Oh no he wasn’t. The silent back marker went first, and with sensible spacing we all followed. At the front I could see Robin (f) carefully negotiating her way down, and doing a reasonable amount of travel on her bum. Right in front of me was Mrs Pennyworth who was also proceeding with caution, not totally sure she was enjoying it.

After initially taking it slowly I decided to go for it. So I waited for some space between me and Mrs Pennyworth, then ran right down to her, stopped, and waited again. Boyfriend did the same, bearing down the hill alarmingly fast behind me. There was the suggestion of a path through the scree, but I found that the scree in this wasn’t as deep making it harder to run down safely, and stop. So I tended to run through the thicker stuff to the side of the path.

 

A large boulder was inconveniently placed in the middle of the route down, with very little scree left around it and on a particularly steep slope, which required use of hands and bum to get around.

At one point I heard a whoosh to my right and turned to see the back marker quite literally sprinting down. Mrs Pennyworth also heard him and for a moment thought it was me about to crash into her. Despite the most excellent ski style stopping technique I did manage to fall over onto my side with a stunning skid.

We finally reached the bottom of the steepest scree slopes – the rest were to be traversed sensibly on the path. My GPS informed me that my maximum speed of travel had been 15.6 mph. Not bad for a first attempt.

 

We waited for the others to come down. Joker – or more specifically, Joker’s knee – was not having fun at all. Batgirl also had not enjoyed it. While we sat there a Berber was walking up the path ahead. The only onward option was to climb up the scree slope we had just run down. An unthinkable proposal. Mustafa asked him where he was going – ‘just over there’, he replied, pointing to the summit. Even the paths over the heights of the mountains were daily tracks to some of the local people.

Having lost some altitude and now out of the wind it started to get warmer as we followed the path round to the lunch stop. We filled water bottles from the stream and ate. Until now we had been provided with bottled water, and for the first time needed to purify the water we were taking from the stream. I dutifully added the iodine tablets, waited the allotted time, and tried it. While the water was still very cold you couldn’t actually taste the iodine. As it warmed up the water (which was a little brown now) tasted ever so slightly antiseptic, like TCP. From now on, all the water we drank would be purified spring water. Boyfriend was still struggling to eat, despite the main exertions of the day being over. Batgirl also had little appetite. We moved on again after lunch and were now rounding the opposite end of the valley that we had looked across the previous evening. The landscape had a dry, moon like surface and the rocks were pitted and misshapen, rising up from the edge valley sides.

 

We were re-entering civilisation as indicated by the presence of nomads and herds of animals. Catwoman was in her element. We became proper naturalists when we happened across some droppings, large and almost completely spherical, and were stumped as to what they were from. Too big for sheep, no idea what goats produce but doubted it was this, too regular for mules. Puzzled, we carried on. And then in the field below it all became suddenly clear. Camels. Catwoman, all excited practised her camel noises with the help of Joker. She was determined that one of them would speak to her. Most walked away. But a couple did turn round; one of whom we decided had to be a girl camel because she was very pretty.

 

This was where the psychological strength was needed. The path just went on and on. The camp remained stubbornly out of sight and the sun mercilessly baked us. To make things worse, the narrow, hillside track was lined with enormous thistles.

We kept going, thanks to Mrs Pennyworth’s inspirational thoughts of forced marches with bandaged feet and that if you stopped you would be shot. There are times when you need these things. We still had moment of Frodo and Sam – still only those two lines. Joker wasn’t convinced that we had enough material to open at Blackpool, but I wasn’t so sure.

Moving into herds of sheep and goat, Catwoman was delighted when it seemed that the line of us had inadvertently gone between a lamb and its mother. With desperate baas and bleats, and assistance from Catwoman the lamb sprinted over to its desperate parent as soon as we had moved on.

At one of the last stops I accidentally joined the line out of correct pecking order, and was placed 4^th – behind Robin (f), Batman and Robin (m). Fortunately it wasn’t over too arduous a bit, and Robin (m) kept a most excellent pace that was easy to follow. I also kept the forced march in my mind, and although not actually having bandaged feet it felt as though they were so that was good enough. Robin (m) then needed to make use of a handy boulder we were passing, which meant I was third in line. My god, I thought, I have to keep up now. I kept close behind Batman. He did turn round at one point, and looked at me with a startled expression.

 

I wanted to say that I could walk at this pace if I really wanted to, but preferred to take my time, have a look around and so on. But was too exhausted and too equally surprised to say anything at all.

We finally got to the last stop before camp. As soon as Catwoman arrived I bounded over to her – ‘did you see where I was walking?’ I beamed. She had seen, and was equally stunned. The forced march plot thickened slightly when Catwoman told us of a Stephen King book in which children have to walk at an average of 3mph or get shot. I looked at my GPS and sadly informed her that we would all be dead – we were well below that and that was including my 15mph scree slope descent.

Boyfriend arrived and slumped down against a rock. He was not in a good way. He looked exhausted and could barely put one foot in front of the other. He wouldn’t eat and we were by now running low on water.

Mustafa took his bag and we began the final, long leg down to the camp in the Oulilimt valley. The toilet tent was not there – the wind last night had broken one of the supporting poles. However, there was a convenient outcrop of rocks that would serve the purpose.

 

Boyfriend climbed into the tent and more or less collapsed. He drank a rehyrdation sachet and had, over the previous day, been adding salt to his food to counterbalance the vast quantities he was losing. It was however, too little too late.

He stayed there, sleeping fitfully, and did not come into the mess tent for dinner. Consequently I worried about his ability to do the final days walking, but there was little that I could do.

Panther did make it to dinner.  It seemed she had been very poorly that day, vomiting profusely – including over herself, the mule and muteers. Her state of ill health had meant that a muteer ended up needing to sit on the mule with her, just to hold her on as she was showing clear signs of not staying there by herself. However, she felt revived now and confident she would be joining us for the following days activities.

Joker however was given no options at all. Mustafa told him he had done valiantly today, but that tomorrow would be too hard for him. He was to be taken to the lunch stop by mule, and join us for the remaining walk back.

By now the limbo dance in and out of the tent was becoming harder. Not surprising when you consider that we had done 14.3 miles in 7.37 hours, with a total ascent of 2104m and a total descent of 2104m with a moving average of 1.9mph, ending at our camp altitude of 2773m.

Mohammed, the chef, was ill and had directed matters from afar. The impact of his ill health however was noticed in that the main course of dinner amounted to little more than a large pile of boiled vegetables. Catwoman only wanted the potatoes – not liking the other vegetables, much to the amusement of everyone else, given that she was a vegetarian – who also didn’t like eggs and nuts. Again we passed meals all the way round the tent rather than to the middle. Mustafa just looked on despairingly.

Mustafa spoke about the muteers – there was a young one called Hasan who brought the food to the tent, and took it away again later. Mustafa would sit there, shouting for him, and he would appear. Some people had wine that night and Mustafa shouted for Hasan. It was suggested that he would be asked to get the bottle of wine that was right next to Mustafa, but in fact he was required to bring glasses instead. Mustafa cared a lot about his team. He told us that there were so many people in the villages wanting to do the job and he wished he could employ them all. It did mean, of course that if anyone on his trips was not up to scratch or didn’t look after their mule properly they could be easily replaced. Hasan’s father had told Mustafa to take him and do what he wanted with him. We all thought that he was incredibly dedicated and perceptive and had not been aware until then that this was his first trip.

 

It was pointed out over dinner that Sam and Frodo had made a valiant effort, but failed ever so slightly in that we never threw the ring into the fires of mordor – no, we took a picture, ate a muffin and left. That would never have happened in Lord of the Rings we were assured. We pointed out that Sam and Frodo hadn’t had to deal with snow and wind. Ah yes, was the response – but they did have orks behind them. At that juncture Penguin said he would rather be an ork than gollom – we had of course already divulged his anti-gollomness during the ascent.

In the end it was to no avail. We had failed to save middle earth, and no excuse was good enough.

I went to bed, aware that my chin was starting to blister through having got sunburnt and realised that this is the longest I have ever gone without looking in a mirror.

During the night I got up to go to the ladies. The rocky outcrop was steep and covered with tiny stones that slipped and slithered beneath your feet, as well as a healthy supply of prickly bushes.

Having come very close to perching on the aforementioned, I did what I needed to and on standing up slipped down the slope. I managed to flip myself over and land on all fours, ever conscious of what might be on the ground – it was, after all the toilet block – and also mindful of the trousers still round my ankles meaning that far more body parts were available for imminent injury.

I escaped with a small graze to my hand. I knew it was bleeding slightly, but it was late, and I was tired. So I went back to bed.

In the morning I looked at my hand. The skin had healed over the wound – thereby entrapping the dirt and grime beneath. But it was alright for the time being.

After breakfast – which Boyfriend managed very little of – Joker was hauled onto a mule and we watched him and we set off for our final day of walking.

After a while it became apparent that Batgirl and Panther were falling behind. Mustafa, Robin (f) and Batman were striding out ahead, somewhere in the distance. So we all followed Robin (m) – nicknamed Mustafa II as he was again wearing a blue turban, and we dutifully followed anyone in blue headgear. We stopped frequently to allow Panther to catch up. She wasn’t well, gripping her stomach which was cramping. We sat her down and made her drink while Penguin attached his rucksack to his own.

Whilst mutiny is perhaps too strong a word, certainly this part of the group stuck together steadfastly and looked out for each other. We filed along, as one unit to the waiting Mustafa. He had stopped the last couple of mules whose loads were re-arranged and Panther was promptly put on top of one of them. While we were on reasonably level ground Boyfriend was fine, and seemed more or less fully recovered from the previous day.

However the lack of food in him soon became apparent when the path took a final, nasty turn upwards on a testing climb to Tizi n’Ait Imi. We had to get over this particularly steep ridge before the final descent and promised flat walk back to the gite. It was hot, and getting hotter. As the ascent started Boyfriend’s pace slowed. I stayed with him and tried to keep him moving. We eventually reached the first stop on the ridge. Mustafa realised something was wrong, but seemed to think it was his knee hurting rather than just plain simple exhaustion. The back marker was given his bag to carry. I looked up at what remained. We were about half way there, but from here the ridge steepened significantly, and the path became more stone ridden – not ideal for someone struggling to pick their feet up.

We carried on. For a while Batgirl was with us, also struggling and determined to get there, but at her pace. Boyfriend faltered, and swayed. I made sure that he had the fullest bottle of water with him but felt completely helpless in all other respects. There was nothing I could do to help him. There was nothing I could do to get him up that hill.

The back marker seemed bored, almost annoyed with the desperately slow and stuttering pace. Boyfriend would walk a little, then stop, occasionally sit down and wobble most alarmingly near some of the steeper edges.

I looked up again. The top was so elusively close, but the path still zig zagged onwards and upwards, never appearing to get there. Because of the pace, I was actually finding the climb remarkably easy. But every step was now hurting Boyfriend– his hips, his knees, everything. The sun raged on and I was becoming aware that I was feeling the effects of it. I was also aware that I had made sure Boyfriend drank the lion’s share of the water and was now worried about dehydrating myself. Not wanting to burden him with such concerns I carried on trying to do what I could to get him up that slope – including the promise of sexual favours on his recovery. I was already carrying his pole – his arms having run out of any useful energy long ago. But he would not be helped in any other way. I stood there, useless. Watching him crumble.

Eventually we got to the top of the ridge. Robin (f) and Batman moved out of the only shady spot so that Boyfriend could sit there. He was a broken man. I hunted out the fullest remaining water bottle for him. Mustafa handed around his nuts, but Boyfriend still couldn’t eat anything. He took same painkillers, and consoled himself with the worst now being over.

Batgirl congratulated him most heartily, revering him to hero status for managing to get up the ridge given that he was still unwell from the previous day and hadn’t really eaten anything since yesterday morning.

From the top we could see the village where the gite was, miles away in the distance. Nearer, was the village where we were having lunch. As the downhill went on, Boyfriend’s spirits appeared to improve slightly. The village for lunch took an eternity to get to.

Eventually there – and about an hour later than originally planned – I filled the water bottles and doused my head with cold water from the stream. It made no difference. I still felt very hot, and slightly fuzzy.

We sat in the shade of a tree and ate. There was the additional surprise of what looked like camel droppings but was in fact sardine meatballs – or fish balls to be more accurate.

Boyfriend couldn’t eat anything. He was struggling to chew. He managed some sweet mint tea and very sweet hot chocolate. Mustafa offered the chance for Boyfriend to be muled back to the gite. He declined and for a moment I saw on Mustafa’s face what seemed like respect – no matter how hard it was, or how ill he felt, Boyfriend was going to walk the whole thing.

We didn’t know it then but it was apparently hotter out there than in Marrakech. We set off for the final few miles back to the gite. Everyone was now in attendance. We started as a group and we would finish as a group. We walked with Batgirl and Panther – who was still suffering. After a while we realised that Batgirl was also unwell – she had diarrhoea and needed frequent stops.

As we approached another village the heat, ill health and exhaustion took over and she became tearful, explaining that in villages there were fewer places to hide and more people to hide from and she wasn’t in a position to just hold on for the time being. I gave her a hug as she apologised for getting emotional. I told her that no apology was required. I had, after all, burst into tears on the top of a mountain yesterday. So had she it transpired. We compared stories of people coming over to hug, kiss and congratulate when all we wanted was to be left alone.

Although feeling fine in myself, my hand was now swelling up and becoming painful. In another of Panther’s dark horse moments she told me she had been a nurse, and looked at my inflamed palm with a tut tut. She didn’t like the look of it at all and wanted to do lots of things that would hurt it when we got back to the gite.

As is always the way when you think you’re nearing the end, it goes on and on forever. The little energy Boyfriend had taken on board at lunchtime was running out, and again he was struggling to walk. We no longer bothered to keep up with the rest of the group, going at our own pace, stopping regularly for Batgirl or just when some shade presented itself.

We turned one corner and saw Batgirl leaning against the wall of a building, in tears. The final straw, it seemed, had been Mustafa’s decision to stop at a café for a drink before going on to the next village - and the gite. In her state of health that was the last thing she wanted. She sat there, gently crying the whole time. Boyfriend rested his head in his hands – exhausted. Everyone looked so miserable that I took a picture of them.

Batgirl wanted a coke, but Mustafa claimed this was not ideal if you have an upset stomach. I have since found that actually coke is one of the best things to take as no bug can actually survive it.

After our brief drinks stop we moved on, for the final time. The gite was, of course still an unreasonably long way off. Despite being late afternoon it was still hot. We were in the valley where there was no shade or breeze, and the path back led us through the patchwork of farms that we had started our trek in. I kept turning to check on Boyfriend – as well as keep an eye on those ahead to see the route through this maze of fields. He was wobbly again. The fields were criss crossed by narrow, deep ditches that held the water supply for the crops, and I wondered if Boyfriend would accidentally trip or fall into one.

We passed women in the fields, walking their cows and drawing water from the village well. The young boys were playing football on a flattened mud area that served as their pitch. Nothing had changed since we left. Nothing, except us.

We reached the gite, which had vast numbers of steep stairs that I didn’t remember. Boyfriend accepted Mustafa’s arm to get up them. This place, which had at one time represented quaint rusticity, was now the epitome of civilisation. Running water, toilets – albeit with a manual flush facility, showers.

We had covered 11.2 miles in 5.28 hours at an average of 2mph. Our total ascent had been a short but steep 634m with a total descent of 1503m.

It was only after getting home again that I realised Boyfriend had probably suffered from Acute Mountain Sickness (AMS). Headache, fatigue, undue breathlessness on exertion, the sensation of the heart beating forcibly, loss of appetite, nausea, vomiting, dizziness, difficulty sleeping and irregular breathing during sleep are the common complaints and are caused by lack of oxygen. These are symptoms of Acute Mountain Sickness (AMS), which usually develop during the first 36 hours at altitude and not immediately on arrival. Well over 50% of travellers develop some form of AMS at 3500m. Strenuous exercise at altitude, whether or not you are fit, makes AMS worse.

We sat outside on the teeny tiny chairs to have mint tea. I wondered if we would ever be able to get up again. I proudly announced our week’s statistics of:

Day	Miles	Tot Ascent (m)	Tot Descent (m)	Moving Time
Monday	15.4	1177	697	6 hrs
Tuesday	9.7	1427	1177	5.16 hrs
Wednesday	8.55	732	432	3.44 hrs
Thursday	14.3	2104	2265	7.37 hrs
Friday	11.2	634	1503	5.28 hrs
TOTAL	59.15	6074	6074	27.25 hrs

Thousands of flies buzzed and hummed round us causing Huntress to comment that we must really smell.

Boyfriend had sat on the floor and wasn’t planning to join us on the miniature chairs. Then he disappeared inside. I went in after a few minutes and saw a chap I didn’t recognise who I assumed was staying here as part of another group. Before I could properly think this through, he spoke to me. It was Boyfriend. He had just thrown up and looked terrible.

I put him to bed with vast helpings of rehydration sachets. Panther came to check on him. It appeared he had a temperature, not feverish, but raised. She wetted some towels and wrapped them round his head and neck.

Eager to be clean again, Mustafa arranged the order for the hammam. A toss of the coin won the girls the chance to go first. We would be in 2 groups – first was me, Catwoman, Panther and Batgirl. The hammam was a small room with a concrete floor and a large circular structure containing water. It was heated from below, so the floor was hot, as was the water. There was also a cold tap. The idea was to get a bucket, put in some hot water, top it up with cold and using the cups liberally douse yourself and wash.

Catwoman and I undressed and went in first, soon remembering that we needed to wear sandals as the floor was very hot. We all stood there, pouring cups of deliciously hot water over our heads and rinsing off a weeks worth of sweat and grime and filth accompanied by groans of pleasure that wouldn’t have been out of place in a lesbian porn film.

I looked around and observed that the scene had a faintly biblical feel to it – the cleansing of the maidens. Joker later said he understood cleansing, but maidens? Instead he called it the cleansing of the hot babes of middle earth.

And at mention of the groans all the men asked Mustafa for copies of the CCTV film footage of the room.

As the water cascaded from our bodies onto the hot floor the steam rose, helping to clean us. It was wonderful.

We re-filled the hot water tub from the cold tap – as instructed, and vacated. It seems that by the time the girls had finished, the hot water was luke warm and by the second sitting of boys, it was cold. So they hadn’t appreciated the full joys of the hammam like we had. Managing not to feel at all guilty the girls permitted the boys to be first to the showers in the morning.

Having washed Panther attended to my hand, which had been getting steadily worse, with a strange concoction of ointment and antibiotics.

Boyfriend was still unwell, and suffering cramps in his feet which he asked me to rub. Despite my nice new clean hands and his not so fresh smelling feet, I did. He clearly wasn’t feeling too bad as he had the presence of mind to ask which of the girls had the nicest breasts. He also decided that he rather fancied a bacon sandwich. This desire was not helped by Joker taking the theme and running with it, suggesting a baguette rather than sandwich. Anyway, there was no bacon.

Our trek completion dinner was to be a vast multi course concern on which our voracious appetites made little impact. Boyfriend, unfortunately, was not able to attend, still feeling very nauseous. After every course I went up to see him, provided I didn’t breath near him as the food smell turned his stomach. After the second course he was asleep.

Batgirl only managed the starter before going to bed, feeling poorly.

Mustafa taught us how to tie turbans, using Penguin as the dummy and using Robin’s (f) scarf. It was surprisingly easy to do.

Dinner was followed by dancing girls. In the event there were considerably more dancing men than girls. The men also drummed on quite literally anything they could get their hands onto, and they all sang.

They were directed by the aha man. He was an ancient fellow who had hobbled in while we were having dinner and had the appearance of someone with no teeth. Mustafa assured us that he was quite nimble, and was just pacing himself.

After the first couple of dances the aha man (so called because that is primarily all he said) approached us, took a reluctant Catwoman by the hand and led her off for a dance. He was a funky groover. Shoulders and hips really getting into it. Every time he approached the group again we all visibly shrank back into the wall.

For one dance they did get all of us up there. It was some very complicated circular hokey cokey arrangement in which we often needed to change direction. Some of the dancing girls gripped their stomachs as they laughed and laughed at our valiant attempts.

I checked on Boyfriend again before going back to watch some more of the dances. This was meant to be our party, our celebration, but the man I wanted to share it with was lying upstairs, hadn’t eaten for days and running a temperature. It was sad and I felt alone. So I decided to call it a day, and go to bed.

Boyfriend was awake when I went up. The dancing soon finished and Joker was going to do a speech of thanks, followed by tips for the chef and muteers. I opened the window so we could hear it. He did it all in French so that they could understand which was both thoughtful and impressive. I therefore, understood very little of what he said but think it was along the lines of ‘we are eternally grateful for the most excellent food all week, and for your poor mules carrying not only all our luggage but on occasion some of us as well. You’ve all been smashing; look me up if ever you’re in London’ followed by the handing out of envelopes, which contained their tips.

In the morning the boys informed us that their shower had been cold. We tried to look sympathetic. Boyfriend was feeling considerably better – despite the cold shower.

After breakfast we clambered into the jeeps for the long drive back. It seemed to take longer than the journey in, and also felt considerably more uncomfortable, along a hillside hugging bendy road. We slept for what seemed like ages but was in the end only about 20 minutes. It was hot, and getting hotter.

As we passed the dry fields children would run to the roadside holding out bags of wares, hoping someone would stop and buy them. Catwoman found it a sobering thought, the knock backs these children had every day of their lives.

Somehow the subject came round to Frodo and Sam, and the scenes that had been cut from Lord of the Rings. For example, when did anyone duck behind a bush to attend to a call nature. Frodo’s pained expression implied the missing phrase ‘oh Sam, do you have some Imodium’ and Sam could have encouraged Frodo up the mountain a little better by saying ‘Master Frodo, pretend those orks are Indians and we’re trying to escape’. All that realism missed.

We stopped at Mustafa’s house for mint tea, cake and pancakes. In Morocco you don’t pay tax if your house isn’t finished. A finished house is apparently painted, but Mustafa had wanted to be completely sure. So when you went in the front door there were steps straight ahead which led, quite quickly, to the great outdoors. The walls of the upper level were there. But nothing else.

He showed us into his guest room, luxuriously decorated and wonderfully cool. Outside we could hear children shouting. Mustafa explained that they were learning. The teacher would call out words and get the children to shout them back. They were aged 4-5 and wouldn’t go to school for another couple of years. This was to help with their Arabic pronunciation. Once at school they would then need to look at pictures and say what it was before finally learning how to write the words.

Catwoman was staying on in Morocco to do an Arabic course and I wondered if her course would follow similar lines to the lesson going on outside.

As we sat there a very vocal cat wandered in and sat under one of the tables, rubbing itself against Penguin’s leg. Outside, in the dry mud fields, there was litter everywhere, drifting about in the wind. No wonder Mustafa was so keen for us to have left nothing behind during our trek.

Having eaten, we went on to the Cascade d’Ouzoud waterfall for lunch. The three tiered falls drop 110m into the river below. The one tiny drawback was that we needed to walk down from the car park at the top. Boyfriend, although better, was not in any way fit to negotiate anything even slightly resembling a slope. As the path stepped down I think a few of us were mindful of the walk back up.

 

For lunch we had a choice of omelette, meatballs or chicken. Mustafa handed out huge baps inside which were chips and whatever we had chosen. It wasn’t meant to be eaten as a sandwich and I’m not sure the bread was to be eaten at all, serving instead the purpose of plate and insulator.

As we sat there I looked at the top of the waterfall where a group of people were standing incredibly close to the unfenced edge. Midway down it, two young boys had climbed onto one of the rocks to play in the water and as it descended to the river a rainbow rose from the wet mist.

We walked, slowly, back up, passed the tourist stalls that lined the path, and a restaurant with a line of steaming tajines at the entrance. Collecting Boyfriend from the café near the jeep we carried on for the remaining drive to Marrakech. In our chattering Panther disclosed another dark horse secret – she played viola.

In our jeep the seat that Catwoman and Panther were on was broken so that if ever the driver stopped suddenly the whole seat lurched forward, throwing them off. Seatbelts are not worn in Morocco so there was nothing particularly to prevent them being pinged straight through the windscreen. The driver did try to fix it, but to no avail. Anyway, that was the least of our worries. At one point Mustafa – who was in the jeep with us – woke up the driver with a stern look.

We must have started on a lewd topic of conversation because I remember Boyfriend’s face suddenly lighting up as he recalled the promises I had made him in order to encourage his ascent up yesterday’s ridge. Clearly running of things to do to pass the time we compared who had the wettest armpits – based on dampness of clothing. It was a close run thing.

We returned to Hotel Islane, with time to ourselves. Mustafa told us that the traders would expect us to barter and that we ought to initially offer a third of whatever price they quoted and aim not to pay more than half. There was the option of a city tour – however it was 2-3 hours of walking in a 45˚C heat. Having done considerable walking over the previous few days we all declined.

Retiring to our room Boyfriend and I turned on the air conditioning. It made an enormous amount of noise and that’s pretty much all it did. We slept for most of the afternoon. Having miraculously survived any unpleasant guteral disorders for the previous week I had finally relaxed, and was, as a consequence, now starting to suffer from stomach cramps.

We slept until dinner, which was an enormous three course buffet. Robin (m) made a short speech, after conferring with me about a small matter of taste and decency. Apparently it was considered rather amusing that I was used as the taste and decency parameter.

The speech thanked Mustafa for a wonderful week, made reference to Huntress’s vomiting and also congratulated Boyfriend’s valiant efforts. As Robin (m) said ‘I asked Tom whether she imagined in her wildest dreams if Boyfriend would make it up the mountain but apparently he doesn’t appear in her wildest dreams’.

Huntress and Penguin had already been out shopping. She had bought a woven breadbasket – which she had been after ever since seeing one at our first dinner in the gite. Apparently she hadn’t quite got the hang of bartering, barely knocking the price down, and according to Mustafa she could have got 4 baskets for the price she paid. Penguin had bought his wife a trinket box as a gift. According to Huntress though, the gift was too small and would probably not be gratefully received. Penguin was therefore anxious throughout dinner, asking the opinion of others and also asking what else he should get.

We then went through our ‘champagne’ moments at the suggestion of Joker. There was also the suggestion of anti champagne moments and most mediocre moment, but in the interests of time these were scrapped.

An indication of how done in we must have been was indicated by the fact the very few of us could manage to drink more than one can of beer.

Enormously full we wandered out into town after dinner. It was still hot but considerably more comfortable than the oppressive heat of the day. As a consequence the streets were packed. We headed towards the lights and noise of Djemaa el-Fna, which roughly translates as Parade of the Dead. The name seems hardly appropriate for the endless pageant of activity that unfolds here, but the name probably dates from the time when the heads of those who displeased the sultans were displayed in the square.

This huge square in the medina is the focal point of Marrakech. Although lively at any time of day it comes into its own after dark with rows of open air food stalls smoking the skies with mouth-watering aromas. A band was performing – apparently this was more or less a nightly occurrence - and the square was filled with intent listeners. Jugglers, story tellers, snake charmers, musicians and benign lunatics consumed the remaining space each surrounded by jostling spectators moving between the acts.

We walked through the steamy air passed the food stalls where vast quantities of food was displayed and freshly cooked for customers who sat at surrounding benches. One food seller promised Boyfriend a 2 year guarantee and air conditioning. The stalls piled high with roasted chick peas, peanuts, hard boiled eggs, sweet fritters, kebabs, vast quantities of vegetables and a variety of meats. There was noise and bustle amongst the brightly lit stalls, a constant yet ever changing smell of food and you could see the smoke rising into the blue velvet skies above. On the outer edges were the juice stalls, loaded with oranges, that Batgirl and Joker challenged us to walk passed without being offered a freshly squeezed juice.

 

The buildings around the square contained dozens of souvenir stalls selling an enormous variety of goods, from ceramics, tajines, woven breadbaskets and brilliantly coloured lampshades to necklaces, teapots and vast numbers of knives in ornate silver sheaths; with vendors claiming to offer you a good price, applying a sliding scale according to how much money and how little sense they credit you with. To even look at the wares is taken as an intention to buy. Despite this pandering to tourists, the vast majority of the crowd in the square was local.

From here we wandered into the souks that occupied labyrinthine narrow streets that were dimly lit and filled with litter, amongst which stray cats and kittens foraged for dinner.

Most of the markets were now closing up for the night. However, we looked around a ceramic stall where Penguin redeemed himself by buying a small cup to accompany the small trinket box for his wife.

Boyfriend now feeling exhausted, and my stomach starting to hurt we decided to turn back to the hotel and call it a day. We bumped into Catwoman, Mustafa, Mrs Pennyworth and Robin who had been in a bar smoking an apple hubbly bubbly.

Although it was late it was still hot so when we passed the ice cream shop Batgirl decided to treat herself.

We got back into the room, and promptly fell asleep. We woke in plenty of time for breakfast, but both feeling slightly unwell and not at all hungry we decided not to eat anything. However, by the time we had got up, washed and dressed and went to the terrace restaurant to at least be in attendance, the rest of the group was leaving. Apparently they had been wondering what room we were in and planning to come and knock on the door to get us up.

We gathered in the foyer for our lift to the airport. Mrs Pennyworth and Robin (m) were there to say goodbye. Catwoman was also there and there may even have been the suspicion of tears in her eyes as we left for the short drive to the airport where we then had some time of shopping, postcard writing and sitting around – when we all had a jolly good look at Huntress’s passport which did not have a single page without a stamp on it. She had done some travelling.

The flight back went via Casablanca. As we left Marrakech late – obviously – we only had a very short wait at Casablanca with about enough time for a coffee. Curiously no one opted for the available mint tea. We discussed meeting up again in the future, and developed plans for the website and future group contact.

The flight back to Heathrow, fortunately, did not do a quick stop at Tangier, and went the whole way back to a cold and rainy London. Before taking off, however, the cabin was fumigated with insecticide. Our luggage took a while to be produced at Heathrow and was presumably being similarly sprayed.

I had started to feel queasy most of the final flight back and once we got home promptly threw up.

In some ways it was sad to be back. A week ago a dozen strangers met in Marrakech. We had left as close friends having shared the emotional and physical demands of the Mgoun Massif.

In some of the many e-mails between us after returning to England I mentioned that Boyfriend had lost 10lbs while I had shifted a couple of inches off my gluteous not so maximus. Panther had lost about 5lbs which she put down to water loss (we had been drinking around 5 litres a day. Joker wondered how he could shift 2 inches from his beer belly, and invited other contenders to the Great Explore Weight Loss programme with the statement ‘the Great Explore Weight Loss Programme "Now you can eat what  you want (as long as Mohammed knows how to cook it, or in Catwoman's case as long as it's eggs) and still lose weight" [but only as part of a strenuous 5 day hike - vomit attacks & diarrhoea will help with your weight loss programme].

Perhaps we should have stayed in Casablanca because this was going to be the start of some beautiful friendships.

NOTES

The above is a true story. Some of the information about places visited is sourced from a variety of guide books. The author maintains rights over all other content.